


Impartial Opinion

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternative Meeting, Alternative Timeline, Figuring Out Who You Are, M/M, Patrick Brewer is Gay, Patrick needs a hug, Post-Break Up, Pre-Canon, Pre-Schitt's Creek, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, and who you like, pre Patrick Brewer/David Rose, with a little help from a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24636793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Rachel's not exactly impartial, but she's the closest thing Patrick's got.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, post Patrick Brewer/Rachel
Comments: 160
Kudos: 255





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Schitt’s Creek!! A few months ago I started watching this quirky little show for the first time and immediately fell in love. It plays just like fanfiction (in my opinion a HUGE compliment) in that it addresses real issues like mental health and sexuality in the kind, thoughtful, beautiful way that I so often see fanfic creators do. I will forever hold this show up as an example of what a good character arc looks like, of how characters _should be_ developed, and I couldn’t help but throw my own hat into the ring.

Six weeks after Patrick proposes to Rachel, he comes home from work to find her sitting on their couch, worrying at her nails with a half-full bottle of wine sitting open on the coffee table in front of her. Her head snaps up on hearing the door close, but he’d clocked the mood as soon as he’d stepped inside and he knows, he _knows_ what this is about. It’s like taking a wrecking ball to the chest – the air forced from his lungs and the floor knocked out from underneath him – and in that moment he can’t bear the look he’s sure to see on her face. 

Turning away, he tries to catch his breath, carefully hanging up his jacket and putting his shoes and briefcase away in the coat closet. The apartment is quiet at his back; the overhead lights are off, just a single lamp burning in the corner where Rachel sits, but what should be calm and peaceful grates across his nerves. Rachel is all lighthearted chaos and laughing on a good day – normally when he comes home he can smell some sort of crazy dinner cooking and hear the latest pop rock song blasting from the radio in the kitchen – so the silence hangs heavily on his shoulders. 

Patrick’s gut clenches, the guilt and anxiety and dread he’s been tamping down for weeks, months, maybe even _years_ all surging up in his throat, and he has to swallow it down before he can turn around again, his gaze on the floor. Rachel doesn’t speak and neither does he, and for a minute he thinks about ignoring her, about heading back for a shower and going straight to bed, dinner be damned – he’s lost his appetite anyway, but… 

But he’s never been cruel, at least not intentionally, and Rachel is never this quiet. 

Steeling himself, he takes a deep breath and moves across the room, sitting down beside her as softly as he can. Perching on the edge of the cushions, his heart pounds with terror, and if he didn’t feel so faint he’s pretty sure he would have bolted and run by now. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he twists his fingers together to try to hide the way they're shaking, more from himself than from her. He keeps his head ducked, can barely see the red of her hair from the corner of his eye, so when she finally lays her hand on his forearm a moment later, he flinches. 

“Paddy, would you look at me please?” 

And it’s so soft, so _kind_ that a sob escapes him before he can stop it, tears stinging at his eyes. 

In that moment, with no real trigger at all, his carefully constructed world comes tumbling down and he has no idea why. 

_“Oh Paddy.”_

He spends the next ten minutes crying against her shoulder, overcome with a pain he doesn’t understand and sure that he’s going to be sick. It’s like choking up shards of glass, rough in his throat and cutting at his soft insides, and if he were able to think at all he might recognize that he was having a panic attack – he's had more than enough of them in the last few months. Rachel doesn’t try to stop him which he’ll be grateful for later, instead just curling herself around him and holding on tight. She pets his hair and murmurs nonsense against his temple, and at first it only makes him feel worse, because he’s been destroying them for a while now and there’s no way she doesn’t know it. 

There’s been nothing he could do, no reassurance he could give, and he doesn’t even know _why..._

But the human body can’t maintain that kind of anxiety for long, thank god. It’s too much – too much pain and not enough air – and eventually he can’t do it. Everything starts to drain away into a dull, numb sort of terror and the only good thing about it is that he can start focusing on the woman beside him, on her breathing and the relaxed set of her shoulders, and use it to ground himself. 

“It’s ok. It’s ok Patrick, I’m right here. Just breathe.” 

“Sorry...” he chokes, clearing his throat as he sits up and pushes away, scrubbing furiously over his face. “Rachel, I... sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” she hushes him, squeezing his forearm before snagging her wine glass off the table and pressing it into his hand. “Here, come on. Let’s just take a minute, huh?” 

Patrick nods dumbly, taking a hearty swig around the lump in his throat and leaning in to the sting. The glass shakes in his hand, the wine sloshing against the sides, and he has to force himself to take another deep breath before he can settle it. The two of them sit quietly for a few minutes while he finishes the glass, Rachel’s thumb brushing back and forth over his wrist, and when he finally feels like he can... maybe do this again, he turns his hand in hers and laces their fingers together, holding on tight. 

“Sorry,” he says again, a murmur this time. 

Rachel offers him a melancholy half-smile that he’s become painfully familiar with and wobbles her hand in his. He lets her go but she only turns on the couch to face him, pulling her feet up underneath her before reaching out again. 

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” she asks gently, putting her hands on his knees once he’s turned to mimic her, and Patrick feels himself blush. 

“Want to tell me what _this_ is all about?” he counters, gesturing to the wine on the table as he puts aside the empty glass. 

Rachel casts him an unimpressed look – she’s certainly learned all his tells by now and knows when he’s trying to avoid a conversation. 

“Kinda got a suspicion they’re one in the same,” she says, pausing. “Patrick... do you _want_ to marry me?” 

His heart stops. 

“Rachel...” 

“No, don’t,” she interrupts, holding up her hand, and Patrick sits back a little because this is never how their arguments go. 

Normally she’s just as defensive as he is, normally, when he says her name like that she lets it go, because neither of them want to admit that they’ve never been less happy than they’ve been since Patrick proposed. 

This calm, this soft look on her face is terrifying, and yet there’s some small part of him that maybe feels relief. 

“I don’t want to fight tonight,” she says gently. “I don’t want to have the same old argument. I want...” 

Sighing, she drags her hand through her hair and looks away, biting her lip. 

“What I want,” she says again, strongly, firmly as she turns back to look him in the eye, “Is to really take a look at what’s going on between us and decide if getting married is really the right thing to do.” 

“Rachel, I _love you,”_ he says, even as his stomach sinks, because they both know this is about _him,_ not her. 

“I _know that_ Paddy,” she says, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I never doubted that. But...” 

“But you don’t think we should get married.” 

For a moment the statement hangs heavy in the air between them, then they seem to both... sigh. To cave in a little bit, as all the walls they’ve built up between them these last few weeks crumble away. 

Reaching over, Rachel takes both his hands in hers and rests them on her knees, tilting her head to look at him in that way she does that makes him feel like she can see all the way through him. 

“I think...” she says carefully, “I _know..._ that I love you. And that... and that no matter what, I probably always will.” 

Patrick feels his heart crack as she goes sniffly and tearful, and he wants nothing more than for this conversation to be over, to push all this away and pretend everything’s fine, to move forward... 

“Look, I know things haven’t been great lately,” he stumbles, “I know _I_ haven’t been great lately. I'm not happy at work and I've been feeling kind of isolated since Andy and Chris both moved... But that doesn’t mean getting married isn’t right for us.” 

“Patrick,” Rachel sighs, shaking her head. “I’m going to be honest here, and I don’t want you to take it personally ok? Because I think we’re actually on the same page, even if you don’t know it yet.” 

“What do you...” 

“I don’t think you want to marry me,” she says in a rush. “I think you want to _get married,_ because that’s who you are and what you’d like for your life, and because it’s the next logical step for our relationship. But Patrick, I don’t think you want to marry _me.”_

And Patrick just stares. 

“I know you love me Patrick,” she continues, when it becomes obvious that he can't find the words to argue. “I just... don’t think you love me _that_ way.” 

“Rachel, what... what are you _saying?”_ he breathes, suddenly clutching desperately for a lifeline, because everything she’s just said sounds right and he’s pretty sure he’s about to have another panic attack. “I...” 

“I’m saying we’re always going to be friends Patrick,” she says. “We _make_ good friends. But we... we’ve never really made good partners.” 

And what can he say to that?

She’s right; he knows it. 

Being with Rachel has never been easy. 

From the very start, it’s something he’d... just sort of gone along with. He’s never been the one to chase after the other – she had asked _him_ to the homecoming dance their junior year and she was always the one to come find him whenever they’d broken up, the one to suggest they try again to make it work. 

And the crazy part was, they _did_ make good friends. 

When they’re just together, hanging out, it’s easy. They have similar senses of humor and enjoy similar things, and they get along in that casual, simple way that old friends do. 

It’s whenever things go further that it all falls apart. 

“Look,” he says, feeling panicky again because that’s starting to border on the unknown truth constantly lurking at the back of his mind, the _question,_ “I know I’m not exactly the best... the best boyfriend out there...” 

“That’s exactly it though Patrick,” she interrupts. “You _are._ You make an amazing boyfriend – you're thoughtful and sweet and you remember important dates but you just...” 

“So it’s the sex then,” he grits out, anger suddenly flaring up in the pit of his belly over top of the guilt and embarrassment that has him flushing a hot, painful red. 

_“No,”_ she says adamantly, but then she opens and closes her mouth one or two times and blushes a pretty pink herself. 

“You sure about that?” he asks bitterly. 

“Let’s just say I... think it may be a symptom of a bigger problem,” she says carefully. 

“The doctor said there _is no_ bigger problem,” he huffs, flinging her hands away and getting to his feet to pace, the sickly feeling of inadequacy making him vibrate with nervous energy. “It’s just _me.”_

“That’s not what I meant,” she says quietly. "You just... don't seem to enjoy it."

"Symptom of a bigger problem, right?" he mocks.

"No, I meant... any of it."

And that, more than anything, leaves Patrick stunned.

“What do you want from me Rachel?” he finally bites out, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. “You want to break up?” 

“I want you to be _happy.”_

Patrick freezes, stumbling to a stop as he turns to stare at her utterly dumbfounded. 

He’s been expecting her to cry, see? He doesn’t _want that,_ he just _expects_ it, because that’s the way it always goes. She cries, because he doesn’t really do anything to try to keep her, or to stop her, or to fix the two of them, and then he ends up tripping all over himself to make it up to her so that he doesn’t feel like such a heel, and for a while they’re finally ok again and he can pretend that everything is fine. 

But he’s been pretending for a while now and this time Rachel just sounds... calm, sure of herself and what she’s saying and what she wants, and Patrick wonders if he’s finally broken her. 

“Rachel, I...” 

“You _want_ to be happy with me,” she says gently, with that soft, half-smile back on her face. “You want to be happy with _us._ But you’re not. Are you?” 

And Patrick shatters. 

“Rachel I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he gasps, falling to his knees in front of her. “I don’t know why, I can’t...” 

And there it is. 

It’s out there now, between them in the open the same way the wine bottle is sitting there on the table. He can’t lie to her, can’t deny what she’s saying, because it’s true, it’s all true, and he _doesn’t know why._

Doesn’t know why he’s never felt that spark between them that all their friends talk about, doesn’t know why he never feels the need and the hunger for her that he wants to feel, doesn’t know why he can’t see them together twenty years down the road the way he so loves seeing his own parents. 

He knows he loves Rachel, but she’s right, he doesn’t love her the way that he wants to. 

“Hey, hey,” she urges, taking his face between her hands and pulling his chin up, forcing him to look at her. “It’s going to be ok.” 

“How?” he chokes, hunching in on himself. “How is it ok? I... I’m breaking up with you, I mean... aren’t I?” 

“Are you?” she asks, and her expression is so clear and calm and almost... teasing that he... 

“I think I am.” 

It hits him heavy, but a smile breaks across Rachel’s face and she looks almost proud of him. 

“Not the first time,” she says, grinning, stroking the hair back from his temple, and a sudden suspicion creeps in on him, black and ugly. 

“You’re... you’re not upset.” 

“I think we both know this has been coming for a while,” she points out. 

And that’s... fair. 

Something in him settles as he realizes that he doesn’t blame her; not for what she’s done tonight, and that he wouldn’t even if she wanted to break it off for other, less altruistic reasons. 

It settles further when he realizes that it doesn't seem like she blames him.

“Come on,” she says quietly, standing up and pulling him to his feet, keeping his hand in hers. “Let’s go to bed. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.” 

The next twenty minutes pass in a blur of numbing emotion, the weight of them pushing him down like a wave, deep and all-encompassing. The quiet echoed by Rachel’s silence is like being underwater, and he moves through it slowly, his entire body far too heavy. He’s guided gently through his nightly routine, pushed into the shower and pulled back out again, brushing his teeth without meeting his own eyes in the mirror. By the time he slips between the sheets, he’s actually surprised that Rachel tucks herself in against his side, resting her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart. 

“We’re going to be ok,” she says in the dark, and her voice is strong and confident despite her deceptive softness. “We’ll figure this out.” 

“Together?” he asks, and to his horror his voice cracks. 

“Together,” she promises. 

As Rachel snuggles in to his side and he brings his arm up around her shoulders to hug her close, Patrick breathes out, and thinks that maybe, maybe they’ll be alright. 

Even, he thinks, if they have to be alright apart.


	2. Chapter 2

One month after Patrick and Rachel’s come-to-Jesus moment, she’s decided it’s time to move on to the next step of their little arrangement. 

It’s hard for him to argue against – so far everything she’s suggested they try has worked out really well. They’d moved him into the second bedroom and they’ve been living together like roommates for the last four weeks, both of them far happier than they’ve been together in years. They go on outings that _aren’t_ dates, just two friends spending time together, and they come back laughing and grinning hard enough to hurt their cheeks. There’s no pressure, no arguments, and all the tension Patrick had carried with him in the pit of his stomach for so long seems to have evaporated like it never was along with the weight of the expectations he used to shoulder. 

It’s like having his best friend back when he hadn’t realized he’d lost her, and he feels like they could happily go on this way forever. 

At least, he does until he says that out loud and Rachel laughs in his face. 

“Oh, we absolutely cannot,” she says with a grin as they cross the street on their way to the cinema, purposely making eyes at the group of young men crossing in the opposite direction. 

Patrick follows her gaze and chuckles, feeling light and carefree. They’re all handsome in their own ways, but one of the things he’d discovered over the last few weeks is that he’s not terribly upset by the idea that Rachel might be interested in other men. If anything it confirms her insistence that he loves her, but not the way he should. It’s new to acknowledge that and yet not incredibly surprising to realize; he’s never been the jealous sort and now, after having essentially dissolved their engagement, he doesn’t even flinch. 

“I told you if you wanted to look for something serious, I was fine with it,” he says, even as he offers her his elbow and she threads her arm through it, tucking in close to his side. “I’ll find my own place. I think we’re finally on the same page with that at this point anyway.” 

“I know,” she says with a sly grin, “But I more meant for you.” 

“Rachel...” 

“Come on Patrick, I wasn’t wrong,” she says gently. “You _do_ want the happy ending and the house with the white picket fence, just as much as I do.” 

“I... yeah, maybe,” he sighs. 

“It’s not like it’s out of reach you know. I know we’re not teenagers anymore but we’ve both got plenty of time if we get at it.” 

Patrick laughs, leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

“You’ll make some guy real lucky one day,” he says, and there’s a strange lightness to it now, after a month, that there never has been before. 

“You might too.” 

Until it’s gone anyway. 

“Rachel...” he says slowly, pulling away from her and feeling a bit like he’s just walked into a brick wall. “I don’t...” 

She doesn’t reply, just leaves him with it, and they’re very nearly to the cinema so he pulls up and practically collapses onto a park bench on the sidewalk, suddenly nauseous and sweating and light-headed. 

She’s brought it up before, a couple of times since that night when she had confronted him and they’d dissolved their relationship. The big _why,_ the reason that it had never worked and he has no real urge to go out and find a new girlfriend, even though Rachel has gone on one or two casual dates. She’d been cautious at first, asking him if maybe he was looking in the wrong places, and him being an idiot or being in denial had thought she meant literally, casual hookups in bars or clubs. Later she’d gotten more direct, pointing out that it was his habit to just go along, to move on to the next expected step, and ask if maybe he thought that was the problem. 

But the idea that he might be... might be _gay_ is... _terrifying._

When Rachel sits down beside him he clutches desperately for her hand, and she lets him squeeze hard enough that it’s got to hurt. This is usually how it goes; she brings it up, makes a careful suggestion, and Patrick promptly panics, leaving very little room for discussion. It’s too big a thing, too scary a thing to wrap his head around, and it’s not that he thinks there’s anything wrong with being gay. 

It’s just... 

He’s thirty-two. 

He’s spent his entire life thinking of himself as a straight man, with a girlfriend who then became a fiancé, and... 

And that’s kind of how everything fell apart isn’t it? 

She’s not wrong – he's never questioned his sexuality, never been forced to look at himself and wonder, and now, with the option put in front of him... 

He doesn’t know. 

He’d never considered it – he's always just assumed – had never even understood it to be an option really, not for him. 

And if he is... 

It changes everything. 

It means that he doesn’t _know_ himself, _hasn’t_ known himself, ever at all, and it means that he’s wasted all this time... 

“It wasn’t a waste Patrick,” Rachel says quietly, rubbing his back when he jumps, startled. 

He hadn’t realized he’d been babbling out loud in a high-pitched, anxiety-fueled rant but of course he has. There’s a strange sort of poetry to this whole mess – Rachel might be the only person he feels safe enough to fall apart in front of over this, the only person besides himself that he probably owes the truth to. 

“It wasn’t a waste,” she repeats. “We took good things from who we were and what our relationship was, even if it isn’t what we thought we would. You might not be my fiancé anymore but you’re still my best friend.” 

“Yeah,” he gasps, clearing his throat and swallowing hard, pulling himself together. Lifting her hand, he presses a kiss to her knuckles. “I love you, Rach.” 

“I know Paddy. And you know I love you. No matter who you like.” 

A hysterical giggle breaks out of him and he lets her go, scrubs over his eyes with both hands. 

“I think that’s probably the _last_ thing I’m actually scared of,” he admits. 

“But you _are_ scared?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you think...” 

Another chuckle, this one more uncomfortable as Rachel bites her lip uncertainly. 

“Do I think that means something?” he asks, more himself than her. “Yeah, I think it probably does.” 

“So... what do you want to do about it?” 

“I have absolutely no idea,” he says blankly. 

Beside him Rachel sighs through her nose, the little sound she makes when she’s puzzling over something, and it’s comforting and familiar in the same way the little squeeze she gives his forearm is. 

“Well,” she says a minute later, clapping her hands to her knees before bouncing to her feet and pulling him up after her. “Nothing has to happen today. Or ever, if you don’t want it to. Let’s just go see the movie, and maybe...” 

“Maybe?” he prompts, turning them in the direction of the theater. 

“Maybe see how you feel about checking out Ryan Reynolds instead of Blake Lively.” 

“I...” he stumbles, blinking and feeling a little dumbfounded that he could start with something that simple. “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

**#####**

“So that was weird.”

 _“Bad_ weird, or _different_ weird?” Rachel asks, leaning over her bowl of pho and slurping up a long, squiggly noodle. 

Patrick frowns and pokes at his bahn mi, his stomach a little unsettled. Watching a movie for a reason other than just _watching it_ had been strange, so he tries to account for that as he thinks about the experience, considers how he’d felt as his eyes had flickered back and forth between the two main characters, the actors so blatantly male and female in their form and in their voices. He hadn’t really felt any interest in Blake Lively despite her bikini scene, and his first thought is that she’s simply not his type. It takes a lot of effort to check that immediate reaction. 

“Different weird,” he decides, because different seems to be the best description he can come up with. 

At the same time, it’s not _as_ different as he’d expected it to be. 

Over the last month, he’s realized that he has never been as _into_ Rachel as he thinks he probably should have been. Not just Rachel either – other girls too. In high school he’d never participated in the awkward race to be the first to have kissed a girl, had never hung posters of actresses in their bathing suits on his walls or joined in on the bragging, exaggerated locker room talk he’d always been so uncomfortable with. He’d never gone through what’s considered the typical teenage preoccupation with sex or dating, and had never felt the intensity about any of it that his friends had, and that odd sort of apathy had carried over into adulthood. 

Feeling no interest in the beautiful female lead of an action rom-com is nothing new at all. 

“Sooo...” Rachel says slowly, drawing the word out as she wipes her hands on a napkin, “Not to send you into another panic attack...” 

Patrick laughs, stretches his legs out under the table and taps his toes against her ankles. He doesn’t think he’s ever been as glad for someone in his life as he has for Rachel over these past few weeks. She knows him, knows just when to push and when to back off, how to prod to make him feel like he’s being teased, not taunted. 

“Right?” he huffs, finally picking up his sandwich and taking a huge bite. 

Rachel waits for him to chew and swallow before posing her question. 

“But, um... do you know _why_ you’ve been having them?” she asks carefully. 

Sighing, he fights the urge to push his plate away and forces himself to eat a little more, thinking about the answer to make sure it’s right. 

To make sure it’s honest. 

“It’s not that I think it’s wrong,” he says slowly. “Or... bad. I just I didn’t think _I...”_

“It’s just that it’s a little different when it’s you and not someone else?” 

“Something like that. I mean, it... wouldn’t be bad if it _was_ me...” 

“You don’t sound sure,” she says gently. 

And... 

He’s not. 

“It changes things,” he says at last, his words coming out short and clipped. 

“Changes what?” 

“Who I am?” he replies, and it comes out more like a question than he’d meant it to. 

Rachel frowns and toys with her chopsticks for a minute before she finally responds. 

“It changes part of you I guess,” she says, “But _only_ part. Nothing except who you like to do the dirty with.” 

Patrick snorts, feels a little better, but only a little. 

“It does though,” he argues. “I’m a take-charge kind of guy Rachel, you know that.” 

“I do,” she agrees. “But I’m pretty sure you didn’t actually know there was anything _to_ take charge of.” 

Patrick thinks about that for a minute, wonders if it’s just an excuse. 

“Am I wrong?” she asks, and he thinks back to all the little sparks, all those little moments that - looking back – seem like signs. 

He _has_ admired men before, has felt his palms get sweaty and his heart pound, but at the time, hell, even up until these past few weeks, he’d always had an explanation, a rationalization for it all. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever really seen those signs for what they were until now, doesn’t feel like he’s been... repressing anything. 

_That_ makes him feel a little better. 

“No, I guess not.” 

Rachel smiles at him, wiggles a little in her seat and slurps up another noodle. 

“You’re still the same guy,” she promises, reaching across the table to snatch a pickled radish off his plate. “You’re still a crazy math whiz, and too competitive at sports, and you’ll still kick your socks off in bed underneath the covers no matter who’s sharing it with you.” 

“It just seems silly,” he says finally. “I feel... kind of like an idiot.” 

Rachel pauses in the act of lifting her bowl to slurp the broth, blinks at him in surprise. 

“Why?” she asks, sounding shocked. 

“Because I feel like I should have figured it out by now,” he says. “I’m thirty-two, we were together for, what? Fifteen years? Shouldn’t I have known?” 

“Did you _hate it_ when we were together?” she asks, shrugging, he hopes, because she already knows the answer. 

“Of course not.” 

“Then why _should_ you have known?” 

Patrick frowns, feeling more confused than he has since this whole thing started. 

“Look at it this way,” she offers, putting her bowl back down with a heavy thunk. “You’ve spent your whole life eating cake, right? _Everybody_ loves cake. Some people only like chocolate cake, some people like those weird ones with flower flavors, some people – if it’s a cake, they’ll eat it. But you’ve spent your whole life eating cake.” 

“Are you the cake in this situation?” he asks, half-exasperated, half-amused. 

“Hush,” she scolds, shooting him a look. “Just, there’s an expectation that you like cake, ok? Everybody does, and you don’t _hate_ it, so you _must_ like cake, right?” 

“I... guess?” 

“But you’ve never tried pie,” she says triumphantly. “So _how could_ you know that you enjoy it so much more?” 

“I don’t know if I _do,”_ he points out. 

“Which is why I think we should go to a bakery.” 

Patrick stares, for the blink of an eye, before he bursts out laughing. 

“Literally or metaphorically?” he asks, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket to fish for some loose bills. 

“Both!” Rachel declares, looking pleased with herself. “I want a strawberry cupcake.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Getting to his feet, Patrick, slips his jacket back on and helps her out of the booth, waving to the shop owners before turning them toward the door. The air has cooled off a bit as the sun started to go down, and Rachel tucks herself in close to his side as they walk. It’s familiar comfort that he needs right now, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to ask for it. Rachel, he thinks, has been _safe_ over the years, because she knows him so well and offers him so much, has been so generous with her time and her wit and her heart. 

He owes her more than he thinks he can ever repay. 

Perhaps though, he muses, perhaps he can take a leaf out of her book and show some courage, find some reason and some purpose in this whole mess. 

Perhaps, he thinks as they step inside their favorite bakery down the street, he’ll take her advice and consider a slice of pie.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re having way too much fun with this,” Patrick accuses as Rachel holds yet another shirt up to his chest. “Am I your stereotypical gay best friend now?” 

“I don’t know, are you?” she fires back, grinning, eyes sly. 

Patrick swallows hard and doesn’t reply, trying to fight down the heat on his cheeks. When he’d agreed to this ridiculous escapade, he hadn’t known the answer to that question, and he still doesn’t now. He’s spent a lot of time puzzling over Rachel’s dessert metaphor recently and it’s done a lot to convince him to let go of some of the guilt of simply _not knowing,_ but he still hasn’t worked up the courage to do more than think about things. 

Now, Rachel wants to take a trip to the _metaphorical_ bakery. 

Her words, not his, and it’s not like Patrick’s never been to a club before, but they’ve never really been his scene and he’s always had her there beside him as a buffer. 

“I still will be,” she says with a breezy laugh when he explains his hesitation. “We’re just going to _look_ Paddy, browse the dessert case. You don’t have to take a bite out of anything. Though I kind of hope you’ll want to.” 

And well, that idea had set his heart to pounding and gotten his palms sweaty, so there was that. 

It had taken him a while to decide that _yes,_ there was more to the reaction than just anxiety. 

Maybe... maybe there had been a little anticipation too. 

A little excitement. 

But he hadn’t been excited about this. 

“Can’t I just wear one of my own shirts?” he asks, frowning as he fingers the silky material of the deep purple button-down Rachel’s just tossed at him. 

“Only if you wear a tighter pair of jeans,” she determines, and Patrick shakes his head sharply. “That’s what I thought. Anyway, we’re going to a gay- _friendly_ bar, not _just_ a gay bar. That’d be like taking me to an all-you-can-eat buffet while I’m on a diet; totally unfair and not nearly as much fun.” 

“So, there’ll be some _straight_ guys there too,” he concludes, after taking a minute to puzzle out the simile. 

“There’ll probably be a little of everyone there,” she shrugs, flicking quickly through the hangers on the clearance rack. 

“So why does it matter what I wear?” 

“Because I’d like at least _some_ of them to hit on you,” she says simply. “Give you something to think about. Did you look through that LGBTQ website?” 

“Yeah, it... it was kind of a lot,” he admits, feeling himself blush as he thinks about how tonight might go if Rachel gets her way. 

“A lot more possibilities out there than you thought huh?” 

“Yeah. But... I kind of liked it.” 

“How so?” she asks, turning her focus from the clothes back to him. 

“I don’t know, it... it was just nice,” he stumbled. “That you’re allowed to...” 

“To love who you love?” she asks gently. 

“Yeah.” 

Rachel offers him a smile that somehow manages to be blindingly happy and sweetly soft, and he’s filled up with a warm bit of pride that he’s managed that much, that he’s come this far. It’s not that he would have denied believing that before, he just... never would have really thought about it. One of his cousins is an out lesbian, and he’s caught a lot of the modern movement in the news, but it had never really felt relevant to _his_ life. This, just applying some of those ideas as a question to _himself,_ feels like a big first step. 

“I’m proud of you Paddy,” Rachel says, breaking him out of his thoughts and once again proving how well she knows him. “I know this is probably scary.” 

“It... yeah,” he admits, clearing his throat sharply. “But it’s... kind of a relief, too.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Just that there’s a reason,” he says simply. “That there’s nothing _wrong_ with me.” 

“Patrick...” 

“No, I know,” he says, blinking quickly and scrubbing his wrist across his face to get rid of the tingly, _gonna-cry_ feeling stinging at his nose. “Just, for the longest time I didn’t know _why..._ And now I... I at least feel like maybe I might find out.” 

Rachel’s expression goes gooey, the way she looks at kittens, and she slips around the clothes rack to slide into his arms. Wrapping her up, he holds her close against his chest, bending down to press a kiss to her hair. He’s struck again by the sense of familiarity and safety; the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her shampoo. It’s all comfort and domesticity and none of the hot, eager _hunger_ that he thinks other people feel. 

He regrets the possibility that maybe he’s held her back over the last decade or so, but he’ll never regret the relationship he has with her now, even if that hunger has never been there at all. 

He hopes maybe one day he’ll find it. 

It takes another hour and two more stores to find a shirt that Rachel approves of. It’s a short-sleeved button down in a silky, textured material, pale grey patterned with lighter, silver-colored crosses, and she makes him try it on in a size two smaller than he normally would have chosen for himself. It fits across the shoulders but clings more tightly to his chest than he thinks he’s perfectly comfortable with. The dark grey cuffs of the sleeves are tight around his biceps, and when he pulls it on he leaves the top two buttons undone, the collar open across his throat. He wriggles a bit, feels like he’s... wearing a costume, but one that he doesn’t hate. 

The way Rachel’s eyes drag over him when he steps out of the dressing room is reassuring. 

“So um, don’t take this the wrong way...” she says hesitantly, spiking his anxiety, “But _damn!”_

Patrick barks a laugh, relieved. 

“How would I take that the wrong way?” he asks curiously, fingering the material of the shirt over his belly, the only place that there’s any loose fabric available. 

“Just that you’ve always been at least an eight,” she explains, her hand on his shoulder to turn him round in a circle. “But this is like, definitely a ten.” 

“What, really?” he asks, shocked. “I’ve only ever gotten a ten with that suit I wore when Andy got his PhD.” 

“That was a ten for a straight look,” she says with a shrug. “And I know what I’m saying doesn’t make _any_ sense right now, but this is... this is something else.” 

Ok. 

He kind of gets that. 

The whole point of this little shopping spree is that he dresses like a straight man, he knows that. The shirt, the style – it's meant to be a signal that maybe he’s not. It looks a certain way, sends a certain message, and he guesses that maybe men are looking for something different than women are looking for? 

Then again, what does he really know? 

He doesn’t hate it. 

He _does_ hate how much it costs. 

“Is this my life now?” he asks as he accepts the bag from the cashier and turns them out of the store. “Clothes that are too expensive? Talking about fashion and... sexiness ratings?” 

“Are you worried about the shirt or are you worried that you’ll have to change who you are?” Rachel asks baldly. 

Patrick stumbles, stops in his tracks and stares at her. 

“You don’t have to change who you are Patrick,” she promises. “This, this is just a game, just fun. Remember our first date, when you wore your dad’s blazer to dinner?” 

Slowly, Patrick nods his head. 

“It was dressing up then, right?” 

“I... yeah.” 

Reaching out, Rachel tugs at the bag hooked over his arm. 

“This?” she says, “This is just that. Just... dressing up fancy for a first date or a drink, like that lipstick I save for special occasions. Everything else, the everyday, your personality? That doesn’t change.” 

“I think I’m just nervous,” he mumbles shame-facedly. “I don’t know how to do this, so every little thing...” 

“You do just fine Patrick,” she promises. “You’re cute and you’re charming and you’re sweet, and you make a really good boyfriend.” 

She pauses, frowning with a far-away look. 

“I don’t think it can be all _that_ different...” 

A sound breaks out of him that can only be described as a giggle, and he would be horrifically embarrassed if Rachel didn’t follow right behind him. There’s a slightly hysterical bent to his laughter but he manages to rein it in before his throat tightens with the need to cry. This entire thing has been a journey to say the least and he’s barely off the starting block, but for the first time he thinks he has hope. 

Hope that, despite the shirt he’s not entirely comfortable with, he’s starting to find a bit more of himself. 

The mall pretzels Rachel drags him off for before they head home help.

**#####**

They go out of town.

Like, way out of town. 

It’s his one demand, and one Rachel easily acquiesces to, because he doesn’t want to bump into anyone they know. 

This prompts several conversations about what he’s comfortable telling people, and he’s horrified to realize how much calmer he feels about telling their friends that he and Rachel are broken up for good – engagement ring already returned – than he is about telling them that he’s... 

Well. 

He doesn’t really know yet, and that’s mostly the reason he doesn’t want to tell. 

At least, that’s how he’s rationalizing it for now. 

Somewhere in the back of his brain he’s started to build up a sneaking suspicion, and it’s one that’s going to be proved someday, given the track he’s on. Oddly enough, Rachel is the engine driving that train, and she tells him over and over that she just wants him to be happy and that that’s why she’s pushing him, but that she’ll stop if he ever asks her to. 

He hasn’t managed to do that yet, and he thinks that means something just like everything else. 

So they go to Elmdale. 

It’s a couple hours’ drive and he’s feeling silly by the time they’re halfway there, having already been in the car for so long, but Rachel just laughs at him and tells him it’s fine, that this works because they’ve come too far now for him to chicken out. She takes him for cheap fast-food chicken nuggets and milkshakes along the way, just to tease him, but it calms his nerves with their childlike familiarity, even though she won’t let him have any barbecue sauce for fear of dripping on his shirt. 

Ugh, the _shirt._

It feels tighter sitting down than when he’s standing, pulling taught across his chest and his belly, and he finds himself squirming and flush. He’d put on a little cologne at Rachel’s urging, something he rarely does since he’s never really found one he likes, and left his watch and his belt at home, both of which she’s always hated. He feels... stripped down, without his armor somehow, and there’s only so much chocolate ice cream and road trip songs can do to help. 

It’s getting dark by the time they pull into the bar’s parking lot, already half-way full up. Friday night – makes sense – but it brings the nerves back in a flood. He’s been coaching himself the whole drive, forcing himself to really dissect that feeling and acknowledge that there’s some anticipation in there along with the nerves, the same kind of anxiety he gets during the first practice of the season when you know you still know how to play but it’s been so long you’re not sure how out of shape you are. 

Very suddenly he’s exhausted, just... _tired_ of going over these same conversations with himself again and again and again. He doesn’t want to do the Big Gay Crisis, he just wants to be _settled_ – five years down the road in a little house with a loving partner, a dog and maybe two-point-five adopted kids and... 

_Oh._

Well that's... something. 

Pushing aside that domestic little daydream, he snatches at the courage given him by his frustration with himself and climbs out of the car, coming round to the driver’s side to offer Rachel his elbow. She smiles her thanks and accepts, shaking out the pretty knee-length sundress she’d worn as she climbs out. She looks lovely – she always does – but once again that spark is missing and Patrick uses that for courage too as he turns them toward the sidewalk and leads them inside The Red Elm Speakeasy and... 

_“Piano bar?”_ he asks, surprised, as he pulls the door open and is struck by the sound of ivories being treated... rather roughly. 

“Thought you might like that,” Rachel says. “There’s only two bars in town; this one and the Wobbly Elm. I think this one tends to caters to a more... _sophisticated_ crowd.” 

“Yeah I can see that,” he drolls, as the kid seated at the piano bench - and it has to be a kid because that guy doesn’t look like he’s more than nineteen – bangs away at the keys. 

“Snob,” she accuses with a grin. “You can take a turn later if you want. Maybe catch someone’s eye.” 

Patrick blushes and turns them toward the bar, unsure of what to say in response. It takes them a minute to find a spot – the place seems to be pretty busy, plenty of people drinking and talking at the tables scattered around the edges of the room or dancing together on the center floor – but eventually he carves them out a space at the very end near the wall, handing Rachel up onto the stool and standing next to her, elbow leaned against the cherry-wood counter top. 

It’s a more... _joyful_ atmosphere than he’d expected. He’d been anticipating something sultry and smoky, dimly lit, with the sort of overt sensuality he thinks of when he imagines an old-world jazz bar. There is an undercurrent of all that here, but he thinks it’s probably no more than you’d find in a regular bar on any given Friday, and that really, it’s likely mostly him. He’s attuned to it, hyperaware and defensive against it, and the differences are reassuring. There are all kinds of groups and couples, people laughing and chattering and grinning under the bright lights, the blonde hardwood floors clean and gleaming. The music – what he’s heard so far – is eclectic and upbeat. When the kid playing finally gets up and takes a bow a raucous cheer goes up that seems honest, and the overhead speakers kick on some DJ’s Top 40 list when no one moves to take his place. 

At his side, Rachel sits quietly, swinging her feet and humming along, her sly gaze heavy on him as she watches him scan the crowd. He knows what he’s supposed to be doing so he tries to focus, licks his lips nervously and starts really _looking_ at who’s out there. There are... pretty people, of course, and someone on the other side of the bar that has some crazy purple hair, but no one who really... 

“What can I get you?” 

Patrick jumps a little, startled by the bartender who’s finished taking care of the group at the other end and made his way to their side. He’s short, slim, with dark hair, and he’s looking Patrick over with even darker eyes. There’s a tag pinned to his tank-top that reads _**Ken,**_ and his grin widens as Patrick feels himself blush. 

“A cosmo and an old fashioned please,” Rachel says sunnily, when it becomes clear that Patrick is too flustered to respond. 

“Coming right up,” he says, tipping a wink, even as he backs away down the bar. 

Rachel waits till he turns around to slap Patrick’s arm and giggle. 

“Cute?” she asks, and Patrick finds himself relieved that the guy from before has decided to get back up to the piano, the clash of keys covering up the question. 

“I don’t know, I... maybe?” he fumbles, his gaze flicking back over to the bartender, who seems to be putting a little more flexing into his shaker-work than is absolutely necessary. “I’m not... used to being hit on.” 

“Ugh, tell me about it,” Rachel huffs playfully, turning back to the crowd. “Come on, help me find some cute guy to talk to.” 

“For me, or you?” he asks, and Rachel’s eyes glitter. 

“Aw, this is gonna be a fun night!”


	4. Chapter 4

Patrick’s still a little nervous as they settle in at the bar, but the atmosphere slowly starts to lull him into a sense of ease. It’s nothing like he’d expected – though to be honest he hadn’t really had any – and the ease with which Rachel seems to be enjoying herself is reassuring. Nothing different here, nothing strange; they’d been out like this hundreds of times before. She’d always had to drag him along on the few occasions they’d gone clubbing with friends, but he loved a good bar night as well as the next guy and the ridiculous sort of open-mic thing they’ve got going on is both hilarious and familiar. 

They don’t seem to take themselves too seriously, so why should he? 

Oh, he’s still anxious – he drums his fingers against the bar and shifts his weight from foot to foot, but he’s... better. 

He can feel Rachel watching him as he scans the crowd, and that’s maybe half the reason he does it. He’s still having a little bit of a hard time understanding why she’s doing this for him, how she can handle subjecting herself to this, because she _did_ love him. He loved her too though, and _he’s_ doing it, trying at least. Whatever the reason he’s grateful, even if it is awkward. 

“First one’s on the house,” the bartender pipes at his elbow, startling him. He managed to save the pink, sweet-smelling thing from hitting the floor when Patrick swings around, shooting him a wink as he pushes it safely into his hand. “Red heads drink free at the Red Elm.” 

Patrick blushes and stutters a thank you while Rachel smirks at him over the rim of the Old Fashioned she’d snatched, laying her credit card down to start a tab. Ken tips her a grin of his own when she adds a tenner tip, then retreats leaving Patrick to his embarrassment. He doesn’t have time to wallow in it – as soon as the man turns his back she’s digging her thumb into his ribs where she knows he’s ticklish, giggling into her glass. 

“So I love that this shirt brings out your more russet tones,” she says, tugging on the cuff of his sleeve, “But no one is going to call you a red head over a brunette, especially sitting next to me. He’s flirting with you Paddy!” 

“Yeah, I got that thanks,” he huffs, taking a sip of his drink. He could only be considered a red head in the loosest of terms. “They’re supposed to make nice with the customers Rach.” 

“But not comp drinks,” she points out smugly, clinking her glass against his. “How do you feel about that?” 

“I don’t know, out of practice?” he hazards, feeling horrifically embarrassed by the sentiment and trying to swallow it down with another big gulp of his drink. 

He only just manages to stifle a cough. 

“Ugh, trade,” he demands, grimacing at the sweetness as he slides it across the bar and makes a swipe for the low-ball she’s trying to guard from him. “Come on, you know I like beer.” 

“But a Cosmo sends a message Patrick!” she teases before letting him swap her. 

“And _you_ said I don’t have to change who I am to do this,” he points out. “I’m not gonna start drinking the frou-frou stuff for this.” 

“Oh fine, spoilsport,” she huffs, unbearable proud of him. “Was it that bad though?” 

She means the getting hit on more than the vodka-cranberry mixer she’s now sipping at, he knows, but she leaves him the out if he needs it. 

He appreciates it, so he stomps on his initial reaction – which is to roll his eyes and deny it defensively – and actually thinks about his answer. 

“No.” 

“Good,” she declares. “If you’re first reaction was just that you feel out of practice, I think that’s actually pretty good.” 

“How can that be good?” he asks, confused. 

“Well, you didn’t panic, for _any reason,”_ she says, ticking off her fingers. “It didn’t feel uncomfortable in a bad touch kind of way. You didn’t have a weird, visceral reaction built on societal expectations... seems like maybe you might be open to it, at least in... theory.” 

“I...” 

Well... 

That’s... fair. 

He trails off because there’s not much he can argue about that, and Rachel gives his hand a quick squeeze before going back to her drink. She spends a few minutes chattering at him, telling him about the parrot that had just been brought in to the rescue where she volunteers that only speaks in French curses, because she knows eventually he’ll get tired of her shitty accent and be forced to join the conversation, if only to change the subject. He finds himself telling her about his desire to look for a new job and the sense of being unfulfilled in his career that he’s been tamping down for a while, and it feels so similar to all the other nights he’s spent leaning against a bar complaining to friends that the tension finally starts to bleed out of him. 

By the time they’re signaling for another drink – a grapefruit spritzer for her and a local craft beer for him, from a different bartender this time – he feels a lot more like the old Patrick, just hanging out, no daunting task ahead. 

Leave it to Rachel to sense that and push him back to the edge of his comfort zone. 

“So, who do you think is pretty?” she demands, turning around on her stool to put her back to the bar and survey the room. 

Out the corner of his eye he sees her expression drop, but it happens so fast he could have imagined it. Only the hearty swig she takes from her glass gives her away. 

“Rachel...” he murmurs, a pang sounding in his chest, but she just shakes her head and pastes on a smile that seems mostly genuine. 

“No, come on,” she insists, and god she’s incredible isn’t she? “There’s a ton of people here Patrick, there’s gotta be one that looks interesting.” 

“Well the purple hair is definitely that,” he jokes, and the sideways look she shoots him is all sass. 

“It _is_ pretty cool,” she allows, “But that’s not what I meant and you know it.” 

“No, I know,” he admits, heaving a sigh. “I just... honestly Rach, I don’t know _what_ I’m supposed to be looking for. I mean... what do _you_ like?” 

Rachel pauses, blinks at him, then snorts a laugh into her drink. 

“Seriously?” she giggles, her eyebrows going for her hairline. “You want to know what I find attractive in a guy?” 

“I don’t...” Patrick mumbles, his whole face going blazing hot. “It’s just... I mean with girls you like the...” 

He makes a hapless little gesture in front of his own chest and this time she actually snorts she laughs so hard. 

“That’s what you’re _supposed_ to like,” she says, “But are you _actually_ attracted to them?” 

“I... I don’t know. I guess I never really... thought about it.” 

“Well,” she huffs, sitting up a little and looking around the room. “I like guys who are clean-cut; clean shave, neat haircut, well-dressed.” 

“Business majors,” he chuckles, and she rocks sideways to knock their shoulders together. 

“Guys with soft eyes and sweet smiles,” she corrects. “I like brunettes, and I like guys that are bigger than me... I don’t know Patrick, it’s kind of like apples and oranges.” 

“They’re still men, even if they’re gay,” he points out confused. 

“No I know. I mean in the sense that what I like is going to be different from what you like, even if we both like guys. I like guys that are bigger than me but you might not want somebody towering over you or somebody’s arms go _over_ yours when you hug.” 

Patrick’s heart thumps in his chest as that image hits him like a brick wall; having to lean _up_ to kiss someone or feeling small and _held_ by someone broader than he is. It spooks him, how visceral that reaction is, and he shies away from it before he can analyze it too deeply. 

“I guess it’s like wanting to know if you like a flavor before you’ve ever tried it,” Rachel muses beside him, going back to her dessert metaphor. “You just... pick a pie that looks good to you and give it a taste. I’ve never had mango but I like the way it looks and the way it smells so I think I might.” 

“Buy you a popsicle on the way home?” he offers, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in a brief hug. 

Rachel grins. 

“Come on, if one person here gave you that punch-in-the-gut feeling, who is it?” 

Patrick sighs, resigns himself to this exercise and looks around. 

There are a couple people that immediately jump out, but none for the reason she means. The purple hair of course draws his eye, and there’s a group of guys at one table being loud and rowdy the way he and his baseball team get after a game. There are a couple of pretty girls around and he pauses on them instinctively, but after a few minutes of actually thinking about it he decides that’s more about habit and safe options than anything and forces himself to look at the men instead. 

Blondes, brunettes, old and young, sporty and skinny, no one really... 

Oh. 

_Oh._

_Wow..._

“Patrick?” 

He barely hears her say his name. 

That feeling she’d described, that punch in the gut he hadn’t even really felt that day when she’d asked him out for the first time, he’d never really expected to actually feel it, certainly not tonight when he’s out _looking._

But... here it is. 

He feels stunned, like time’s stopped for a moment, and he doesn’t even know why. His gaze had been drawn to the back-corner booth because of the _woman_ sitting there, dark leather jacket and waves of glossy black hair. She’s beautiful, he thinks, sitting there sipping her drink alone, but then the man she’s waiting on emerges from the hallway leading to the restrooms and sits down across from her and Patrick’s breath catches in his throat. 

He’s gorgeous.

Tall, dark, and handsome, all olive skin and thick eyebrows and perfect hair, wearing skinny jeans ripped at the knee and a leather jacket of his own that very suddenly Patrick can feel beneath his fingertips, slick and cool and butter soft. 

He’s never thought of a man as beautiful before – he's certain of that – but this is a very clear, distinct sensation that is easily identified, even if he’s never felt it before. When he’d read through the websites Rachel had shown him he’d lingered over the definitions of asexual and demisexual, the whole gray-sexual spectrum wondering if they fit, because over these last few months he’s accepted that he’s never really felt that knee-jerk bite of lust he’s always heard others describe. Now he feels a yank low in the pit of his belly that says they might not fit, and he wonders if he’s just been wearing blinders all these years. 

“Hmm. Might be a little too edgy for me but I can see the appeal,” he hears Rachel say, and he startles, jerking around to put his back to the room and stare down at the bar-top. “Paddy?” 

“I’m ok,” he huffs, still feeling short of breath and a little shaky. “I... I think I’m ok.” 

“Just a lot?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, just... a _lot_ a lot.” 

“Do we need to go?” 

He wants to. 

His first reaction, yes, is to get up and walk out, but he wants to be braver than that. 

Besides, they’d have to walk past the guy to leave and Patrick kinda feels like he might pass out. 

“No. Just... he’s not looking is he?” 

Rachel peeks under the pretense of flipping her hair and shakes her head in the same move. 

“Nope, you’re good. Well, I mean, not totally, obviously. Want to tell me what that’s about?” 

“I’ve just never...” he blurts, before catching himself and biting down on his tongue hard enough to hurt. 

Rachel gives him a soft, melancholy sort of look and pats him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah, I kind of got that impression,” she sighs. “You kinda looked like somebody smacked you.” 

He opens his mouth, tries to think of an argument, but he can’t think of a good one and she’s already moving on, her words too brisk and cheery for comfort. 

“So. Tall, dark, and handsome huh?” she says with a grin. “Well, at least now we know your type.” 

“I don’t have a...” 

“Oh please,” she scoffs, waving him down. “If you didn’t before you do now – you should have seen your face when he walked in Patrick.” 

“Would you keep your voice down?” he hisses, risking a glance over his shoulder toward the back of the bar, but the guy’s not paying them any attention, his head thrown back in a laugh at something his companion’s said. 

“Why, because then you might have to talk to him?” 

“Rachel, I don’t want...” he starts to snap, but it comes out so harsh and so scared that he shocks himself into shutting up. 

Rachel just stares at him, stunned, before her face crumples just a little and she pulls him into a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs into his ear, her head tucked in the curve of his shoulder. “I’m just so excited for you, I... I forgot for a minute.” 

“Forgot what?” he croaks, holding on to her with everything he’s got. 

“That this is new. Scary.” 

“It’s not that part of me doesn’t want it to happen someday,” he says carefully as he pulls back, looking deep to make sure it’s true. 

“Which part?” Rachel asks pertly, cocking an eyebrow, and he grins wryly despite himself, letting the joke land to lighten the tension. 

“I just feel like maybe I should start smaller,” he confesses. 

Rachel tilts her head and frowns. 

“Smaller,” she repeats, “Patrick what...?” 

“Rachel, come on, look at him,” he says, risking another look of his own. “You said it yourself, I’m an eight - and that’s _you_ with a definite bias. I might be new to this whole gay thing but even I know that guy’s like, a twelve.” 

“Patrick, rating systems are bullshit and looks are just looks,” she scolds. “A pie might look delicious on the outside but if it’s full of sour grapes it’s not worth the time. You’re a catch, ok, and just because you don’t have a lot of experience in one, single area of sex doesn’t mean you deserve any less than exactly what you want.” 

“She’s right you know,” Ken the bartender pipes up, making them both jump as he appears out of nowhere to hand over the receipt for signature, which Rachel had apparently signaled for during his little panic earlier. “I mean sure, there’s a whole casual hook-up scene just like with straight people, but if you want a relationship it’s no different. You still want someone you’re compatible with and that takes more than just a first glance to figure out – if it’s a good guy you’re into they’ll give you the chance.” 

“Um, right...” Patrick mumbles, unsure of what to do with this sudden invasion of privacy and Yoda-like bestowal of wisdom. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Ken replies with another god-forsaken wink. 

Snagging Patrick’s empty beer bottle off the counter, he pushes the cardboard coaster underneath a little closer and wanders off again. Frowning, Patrick turns it with his fingers and blinks when he realizes there’s a number scribbled on it in ballpoint pen. 

“Come on,” Rachel murmurs, her hand warm on his back where she rubs his shoulder in a soothing circle. “The coast is clear – I think it’s as good a time as any to call it a night.” 

Heart thumping hard, Patrick tries to decide if he’s disappointed or relieved that the booth at the back of the bar is now deserted.


	5. Chapter 5

“Good morning Nana!” 

“Just a minute pumpkin,” Rachel’s grandmother shushes, closing up the fan of cards in her hand. “Nana’s about to bring home her bingo money for the month.” 

“Not this time you crusty old broad,” Gladdis croaks, throwing down three aces and a pair of kings. “Full house.” 

“Hah!” Nana crows, spreading a suit of hearts across the table. “Royal flush!” 

The cursing that follows could shame a sailor, and by the time Gladdis and her friend Emily have vacated the poker table Rachel is giggling and blushing like a school girl. Scraping up the quarters that had been irritably tossed her way, Nana pours them into her little clutch purse with a pleasant, tinkling sound and waves over one of the attendants observing the day room. 

“Be a pet and bring us three lemonades, would you Andre?” she asks, batting her false eyelashes at the nursing assistant. 

“Just two today actually,” Rachel pipes up, thanking the man as he turns back for the beverage cart. 

“Where is your fiancé then?” Nana asks, preoccupied with shuffling the cards back into a deck. “Not just parking the car?” 

“No Nana,” she says softly. She’d asked Patrick if he wanted to come with her – he normally did when she visited Nana on Sundays – but he was still feeling wrung-out and unsure of himself after their visit to the Red Elm that Friday night. “Actually I... wanted to talk to you.” 

“He break up with you again?” she asks bluntly, arching an eyebrow with her eyes still on the cards. 

“No I... I think maybe I broke up with _him_ this time.” 

This catches Nana’s attention and she pauses, turning to look at Rachel with something like shock and maybe a little bit of pride – though that might just be wishful thinking on her part. She has a minute to blush and feel somewhat ashamed of the thought as Andre brings back two glasses of chilly pink lemonade, which Rachel knows from experience will be almost too tart to be palatable to anyone who still possesses all of their taste buds. He leaves them alone with a grin and a squeeze of Nana’s hand, and she almost wishes he wouldn’t, but she trusts her grandmother more than anyone and she thinks she needs some reassurance today. 

“Well, I can’t really say I’m surprised,” she says slowly as the nurse walks away, her mouth twisted to the side in contemplation. “Or disappointed.” 

“Nana!” Rachel cries, “I thought you _liked_ Patrick.” 

“I do Pumpkin,” she says consolingly, patting Rachel’s hand. “He’s a lovely young man – courteous, responsible – but you two never did seem to click.” 

And well, she’s not wrong is she? 

Rachel sighs, takes a sip of her lemonade and grimaces. 

“A relationship is always work,” Nana counsels, doling her cards out across the table into a game of solitaire, “But it shouldn’t be _that much_ work.” 

“You and Granddad never fought?” Rachel asks petulantly, because she knows they did when granddad was still alive. 

“Oh, all the time,” Nana says with a laugh. 

“But not like me and Patrick.” 

“No. But sweetheart...” 

Nana pauses, seems to consider her words carefully before looking her full in the eye. 

“Sweetheart, if you broke up with him you must feel it too. You’re _engaged_ now...” 

“Not anymore,” Rachel confesses, and it _hurts_ because she hasn’t said it out loud yet, but Nana just nods because of course she’s already figured that out. 

“I suppose your parents and those friends of yours are all telling you to work it out.” 

“We haven’t told anyone.” 

“If that’s what you’re looking for you’re going to have to,” Nana warns. “I won’t blow smoke up your duff; you know that.” 

“I know,” Rachel murmurs. “I think... I think maybe that’s why I came to you.” 

“Mmmm,” Nana grumbles, turning over the king of hearts and flicking it in her direction. “Well, what changed your mind then? He might’ve been wrong for you but you _did_ love that boy.” 

“I still do Nana,” she says softly, tears suddenly stinging at her eyes, her chest aching. “And he loves me. Just... not the way I need him to.” 

Nana casts her a side eye and Rachel swallows hard, debates for the millionth time telling her the truth, even though she’d gotten Patrick’s permission to talk to her. 

“It’s just... we’re both pretty sure Patrick’s gay,” she finally admits in a rush. 

For a minute Nana stares at her in silence and Rachel is nearly consumed but the sudden, irrational fear that this is going to change everything. 

“Well, these things happen,” Nana says suddenly with a magnanimous shrug, going back to flipping her cards, and it’s Rachel’s turn to stare, stunned. 

“I... _what?”_

“I never really wanted to get married,” Nana confides, calm and cool like it’s not a complete change of subject after a totally unexpected statement. “But in my day a woman needed a husband to do nearly anything. If I’d been born into your generation, I don’t think it would have ever happened.” 

Nana pauses, turns to her and smiles, and it’s quite possibly the most honest look Rachel has ever seen on her grandmother’s face. 

“I’m quite happy of that for you,” she says. “Society’s come such a long way since I was a girl; you don’t need a man to be happy or successful these days – it's wonderful.” 

“But you loved granddad!” Rachel protests, shocked by what she’s hearing. 

“Well of course I did sweetheart,” Nana says easily. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive. But I know what it’s like to love a man that doesn’t quite love you back the way a husband should; it wouldn’t suit you.” 

“You... you do?” Rachel asks, her mind reeling. “How...?” 

“You remember Mr. Tremblay from the farm up the road from the old house?” Nana asks. 

“The one that always brought granddad apple brandy?” 

“The very one. He and your granddad served in the war together. He came to our wedding after they came back, and not a month later he bought the property next to ours.” 

Rachel stares, the implications hitting her like a truck. 

“Granddad was...” 

“I never asked,” Nana says with another shrug, looking utterly unbothered, which might be what shakes Rachel’s foundation more than anything. “Figured it wasn’t any of my business. Your granddad did right enough by me and our kids, and it worked for us.” 

“So it _can_ work? Even if...” 

“It worked for _us_ sweetie,” Nana corrects. “I didn’t _want_ a husband hoverin’ round constantly, that needed attention and wanted to play house.” 

“But that’s what _I_ want,” Rachel says slowly. 

“Exactly,” Nana nods. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Would you be happy married to someone that didn’t love you back the way you want?” 

“I... no.” 

And it’s the truth. 

“Then you’re doing the right thing,” Nana promises. “You’re not losing anything by breaking it off with that boy – you're only gaining." 

“How can that be true?” Rachel argues, and it comes out a breathy sob that burns all the way up her throat. 

She hadn’t realized she’d been so close to breaking, having held in all her hurt and fear so well for so long. Nana sighs and puts down her cards, turns on the seat of her walker and takes Rachel’s hands in hers. 

“You still love Patrick Brewer,” she says sternly, with all the conviction of someone who’s lived a long life and no longer cares what others think of her. “And I’m sure he still loves you. I expect he’s been gay this whole time sweetie, even if neither of you knew it, so I doubt much is really going to change. Are you going to cut him out of your life completely?” 

“No, of course not,” Rachel immediately defends, shaking her head vehemently. “It... it’s actually been really nice these past few months. Not as hard.” 

Nana snorts and Rachel blushes over the unintended innuendo. 

“So you haven’t lost anything then,” she concludes. “But now you have a new opportunity to go out and find something else, something more. You can have both sweetheart.” 

“It's just sucks knowing that...” Rachel starts, finally allowing herself to feel it, to speak it out loud now that she’s out of Patrick’s ear shot, “Knowing that I've been with him so long and he didn’t... find me attractive or...” 

Nana scoffs. 

“Honey if you get upset about every person that doesn’t find you attractive you’ve got a pretty miserable life ahead of you,” she counsels. “Oh, I’m sure it _is_ hard. You probably feel like you’ve wasted a bit of time, but you’re still young and beautiful and have plenty of it left. Have you _learned_ something, being with him?” 

“Lots of things,” Rachel says softly. 

How to catch a baseball. 

How to make an effective, organized chore chart. 

How to be cared for and how she wants to be treated. 

She hadn’t been lying when she told Patrick he was a perfect boyfriend. 

He’s just not the perfect boyfriend for _her._

“Then it wasn’t a waste,” Nana says. “If I know you and I know that boy and I know the way you are together, then you’ve both gotten a good friend out of it. I’d even hazard a guess that you’ll be all the better for _not_ staying together, _not_ getting married.” 

“It just... sometimes it feels like I did something stupid,” she says, feeling a lot better because this part she’s already come to terms with. “It’s silly, I know that. But it still feels kind of dumb. I had a great guy who was willing to marry me and give me everything I wanted, and I broke it off and convinced him he liked guys instead. Who does that?” 

Nana barks a laugh, loud and rough. 

“First of all, he _wasn’t_ willing to give you everything you wanted because he can’t,” she points out. “Nobody’s fault, but still true. Second, I doubt you _convinced him_ of anything. You might’ve given him the space and the opportunity to admit it, but you’re hardly responsible for turning him off of females. And thirdly – _willing?_ Do you want a man _willing_ to marry you, or one who’s _excited_ to marry you?” 

“Excited,” Rachel says, a smile breaking across her face. “Definitely excited.” 

“Then I say good for you honey,” Nana declares. “You went after what you really want, even if it’s hard and a little messy. Sounds like maybe you’re giving that to _him_ too, and that’s a gift.” 

“I took him to a gay bar,” Rachel says, accepting the deck of cards Nana hands her and shuffling it quickly before dealing out a hand of Beggar-My-Neighbor. “Maybe that’s the part that feels silly. Trying to find someone new for your... ex. It’s... _strange._ But Nana I was _so_ proud of him. He’s been trying so hard these past few weeks to figure himself out; he’s been so... _kind_ to himself. I don’t know if I could do that in his position.” 

“Seems to me like maybe _you’re_ the common denominator,” Nana says. “Ever think maybe he’s able to do that because _you’ve_ been kind to him? I'm sure it’s not an easy thing to do, come out, not even today. Scary, I’d imagine.” 

“He’s definitely scared,” Rachel agrees. “I’m scared _for him,_ a little. But proud too, and... and excited...” 

Rachel giggles, just a little hysterically, and she has to drop her cards to wipe the tears from her cheeks, tears she hadn’t even realized she’d let fall. 

“He’s coming alive in a way he hasn’t been in a long time,” she says, sobering. “In a way I couldn’t...” 

“Not your fault pumpkin,” Nana reminds her. “That’s not a reflection on you, not a failure.” 

For a moment Nana’s gaze goes far away and Rachel watches her remember things she hadn’t even realized were memories until today. 

Then Nana blinks and shakes it off, going back to her cards. 

“Can’t imagine where I’d be,” she says, “If I’d lived my life feeling inadequate over something like that. Something I couldn’t control.” 

“I guess not,” Rachel allows. “But it _is_ nice to see. He’s excited again, he’s... nervous, sure, but in a _good_ way. I think this might be really good for him.” 

“And you’re happy for him,” Nana deduces. 

“Yeah,” Rachel agrees. “I really, really am.” 

“Good for you baby.” 

They spend the next hour playing more hands of cards, chattering about nothing and everything that’s easy. Nana tells her all about the latest gossip between the other residents of the assisted care facility and the bingo scandal that had recently been revealed when someone had discovered that the cards had been marked. It’s comfortable and familiar and Rachel relaxes into her grandmother’s gruff but loving presence. She’s blunt and direct to the point of rudeness sometimes – something Rachel’s mother despises – bit it’s exactly what she needs right now, and comforting because she’d known that this was what she’d get from visiting today. Nana is set in her ways and painfully reliable, and by the time they move to her private room for lunch Rachel is feeling better than she has in months. 

“So I’m doing the right thing?” she asks hesitantly as Nana scrapes up the last of her banana pudding, because she _does_ still feel off-balance, changing things so much after all these years. 

“You know you are,” Nana scoffs. “You wouldn’t have done it if it was the wrong thing.” 

Rachel chews her lip and Nana rolls her eyes. 

“Fine, let’s think about this for a minute,” she huffs. “You go through with the wedding even though you both know it’s the wrong decision. You’re both unhappy and unfulfilled, and either you have sex that neither of you really wants, which borders on non-consensual for both of you...” 

“Nana! I wouldn’t...” 

_“Or,”_ she insists, “You end up having no sex together at all. Maybe somebody ends up cheating, maybe not, but either way you both start to resent each other. You end up feeling guilty for that, and everything starts to spiral out of control. It ends it tears and anger and a bitter divorce because you couldn’t make it work despite suspecting that in the first place, or you try to stick it out through sheer stubbornness and you both live a miserable life that neither of you deserve.” 

“I...” 

Rachel trails off, horrified by the picture her grandmother has painted. 

“I guess I never really... thought it through like that,” she mumbles. 

And she hadn’t. 

She feels foolish for it, but she hadn’t. 

“I don’t want that Nana,” she whispers, her throat tight and her eyes stinging. “I swear I don’t want that, for either of us.” 

“I know my luv,” Nana shushes, reaching over and patting her hand. “I know. I’m sure this is hard, I’m sure it hurts, but... you’re doing an incredibly brave thing.” 

Rachel opens her mouth to argue, to say that _Patrick_ is the one doing the brave thing, but Nana glares her into silence. 

“You _are,”_ she insists, “And yes, so is he. The two of you – you're saving yourselves, no matter what your parents or your friends or the magazines say. You’re being responsible, intelligent, caring adults who are going to come out of this with a better relationship than you did before. So you tell me – does that sound like the right thing?” 

“I... yes,” she says because what else can she say? Nana is always right. “Yes, it does.” 

“Good,” Nana declares with a stern nod. “Now. Tell me about what you’re doing to find _you_ a new man.” 

Rachel laughs.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s surprising how much better she feels after talking with Nana. In her heart she’d already known most of the things she needed to hear, but it was still nice to have that validated by someone else and to get it off her chest, speak it out loud. Nana could always be counted on to point out silliness or nonsense, and to give you the truth no matter how blunt. Learning about her grandfather and Mr. Tremblay had been a bit of icing on the cake. She’d been shocked, of course – it wasn’t something she ever would have guessed at – but the moral of the story for her had been that people make things work, that what might seem unconventional or even wrong at first glance could be, well... rather perfect. 

It makes sense, when she thinks about it. Mr. Tremblay had always been around, had always been terribly sweet – helping out on the farm, playing with the grandkids, treating Nana herself with what Rachel now sees as beautiful and caring displays of respect. It makes her feel... a bit better about her role in all this. Nana was right – it wouldn’t work for her, having a husband who was in love with someone else, but she’s determined to keep Patrick in her life if only as a dear friend, and that she can make work, even if other people might look sideways at her for it. She just... she wants certain things for herself, the type of grace and dignity Nana and Mr. Tremblay both had shown being two of them. She takes a bit of pride in thinking that she’s doing rather well with that. 

Patrick seems to take some comfort in her visit with Nana too. He likes her a lot and has always looked forward to joining Rachel on her weekend visits to the assisted living facility where Nana stays. When she’d gotten back he’d skulked anxiously around the apartment until she’d dragged him down onto the couch and told him how it had gone, and the way his shoulders had sagged when she’d explained Nana’s easy acceptance told her everything she needed to know. They’d spent the rest of the evening with Patrick’s head in her lap, watching cheap dramadies and pretending he wasn’t clinging, pretending that he wasn’t quietly crying hard enough for his tears to soak hot through her jeans. 

He doesn’t mention talking to his parents, and she doesn’t push. 

It’s the one thing she won’t push, ever. 

She’s pretty sure that he’s not certain yet anyway, that he hasn’t come to any conclusions. He hasn’t... made any declarations, hasn’t announced any labels, and if there’s one thing she knows about Patrick it’s that when he’s confidant, he’s a very take-charge sort of guy. She rarely sees him any other way to be honest, so this is incredibly new for her, but it reinforces her suspicions that he isn’t feeling very sure of himself. 

She does push in other areas. 

To start she encourages him to text the bartender, and after a lot of back and forth he finally does. Ken immediately asks him out for a drink and Patrick shies back pretty quickly, but after some gentle urging he keeps talking to the guy and seems to be well on his way to making a friend. It’s good for him, and eventually he does head out to meet with the man for coffee early one Saturday morning, coming back with a grin on his face. He tells Rachel that he’d gone in a little more open to a date but hadn’t felt much of a spark despite Ken’s flirting with him, and had ended up coming away with a promise of someone willing to answer questions and provide some guidance if he needed it. 

She feels better with him having a sort of gay guru, even if she teases him for it mercilessly – there are things she’s certain she can’t direct him toward, things she knows it’s not even right for her to try to speak to or provide opinions on. Ken seems nice enough and Patrick starts texting him more often, and it’s a relief, sort of... sharing the responsibility.

What maybe surprises her the most is that things don’t change all that much. They’re sleeping in separate rooms but they still watch crap reality television together after work, and they still go out with their friends to bars and restaurants despite neither of them considering it a date. It kind of drives the point home that the easy parts of what they’d had had been the friendship, not the romance, and she finds that she doesn’t miss it all that much. 

They go back to the Red Elm, every Friday. The drive to Elmdale isn’t that far, and she’s more than willing to put in the extra miles at this stage of the game. She can’t imagine the courage it must take for Patrick to be doing this, and knowing him as well as she does she totally understands why he wants to be sure of himself and his choices before he risks running in to someone they know. Her best girlfriends Stacy and Nicole had already noticed the absence of an engagement ring on her finger and she knows Patrick’s best friend Adam had made some comments, but they’d both managed to brush everyone off so far. They’re making _new_ friends, _new_ social circles at the classy little piano bar, and they both get more and more comfortable with every trip. 

It’s honestly sort of nice. She understands why Patrick’s shoulders go loose as soon as they step inside – there are no expectations in Elmdale, no one to hide from, no one to put up a front for. There she doesn’t feel like she has to strike a balance between no longer being the future Mrs. Brewer and trying not to outright declare the same thing. They’ll have to eventually, they both know that, and they have more than a few good laughs, tinged with half-hysterical relief, over the fact that they’d never set a date or sent invitations. They don't carry that label in Elmdale, don’t have to face that judgement, and so the bar not only becomes one of Patrick’s favorite places, but hers as well. 

On their fourth night there, Patrick really starts to loosen up. He no longer tucks himself in between her and the wall, hidden from the rest of the bar. She hadn’t minded acting like a shield, but she’s immensely please that he’s feeling more comfortable, more daring. She watches him scan the crowd and smiles into the rim of her glass, sipping the pretty purple drink Ken had brought her with a warm tingling in the pit of her belly that has nothing to do with the alcohol. 

The sting is nearly gone from all this, and instead of being a semi-jilted fiancé in mourning, she’s just happy for a friend. 

“Top you off gorgeous?” Ken asks, approaching their end of the bar, and Rachel nods. 

They’re very nearly considered regulars at this point, and not only has the bartender become a good friend to Patrick, she’s grown to like him as well. 

“What about you handsome?” he asks, and the tips of Patrick’s ears go pink despite the two of them having come to an understanding a long time ago. 

“Yeah, please,” he says, before swallowing hard. “Um, whiskey neat?” 

“Mid-shelf, two fingers,” Rachel adds, rolling her eyes when Ken looks surprised and a little unsure. 

He nods, casting Patrick a curious look before wandering off for clean glasses, and Rachel turns to Patrick with excitement bubbling in her veins. 

“You’re going to play?!” she practically squeaks, bouncing on her barstool. 

He’s been talking about it hesitantly since the first time they’d come back. 

“I thought about it,” he says nervously, chewing his lip and gazing at the piano across the room. “I haven’t performed in a long time.” 

“You love singing,” she says brightly, toying playfully with the cuff of his sleeve. 

He’d worn a white button-up tonight, leaving the top two buttons open at her insistence after she’d confiscated his undershirt and paired it with his most worn-in set of Levis. He’d skipped his last haircut on a whim so his curls are just starting to grow out again, and he’s... he’s starting to look like the Patrick she’d fallen in love with again. 

She hadn’t realized how... weighed down he’d been this last year. 

Ken comes back with fresh drinks and she watches Patrick take a slow, thoughtful sip of his whiskey, still staring at the piano. The bar isn’t too full tonight and no one’s sat down to the keys since they’d come in. The music being piped over the speakers is a little _popier_ than usual but someone on staff will fade it out as soon as a patron decides to try their hand. She can practically see him plotting what songs he might try out and decides to give him a little push. He hasn’t done much flirting on any of their visits and her presence seems to keep anyone else from approaching _him,_ so he sort of needs it. 

Rachel taps sharply on the bottom of his glass, tipping it up, and Patrick rolls his eyes but slugs it back like a champ anyway. Pushing himself up off the bar he strides confidently across the floor and she has to stop herself from wolf-whistling. 

He’s always had a great butt. 

A few people clap as he pulls out the bench and sits down, cracks his knuckles and trills his fingers along the keys, getting a feel for the pressure and the sound. It’s typically a pretty good crowd, willing to put up with some truly horrendous performances and to appreciate some good ones, but by the time he’s run through a couple of scales they’ve mostly gone back to their conversations, chatter a low hum around the room. Patrick seems unbothered – he's used to performing and has had far worse audiences than this. 

Some opening notes by The Fray not only fit the mood but fit _him._

“He sings too?” 

Rachel bites back a grin – Ken sounds a bit strangled and it’s not really fair to throw Patrick in his face if he really likes him, but she can't lie. 

“He does,” she agrees, smiling and enjoying the music. “You should hear him when he's got his guitar in his hands.” 

“Damn, he really is a heartbreaker.” 

Rachel’s laugh comes out just the teensiest bit cracked, and she can actually see the color drain from Ken’s face. 

“Oh my god, I am _so_ sorry,” he gasps miserably, slapping his hands over his mouth. “I didn’t mean...” 

Rachel quirks her mouth and waves him off, unbothered. 

“He told you then?” she asks, curious. 

“Are you mad?” 

“Nope,” she denies. “I’m glad he has a friend. I can only lead him through this so far, you know?” 

Ken tilts his head and there’s something a little like love on his face. It’s a bit strange seeing it aimed at her – he’d called himself a Kinsey Six when he was explaining the basic attraction scale to them – so it makes her a little bit nervous, and what he asks her next is absolutely the last thing she expects to hear out of him. 

“Sweetheart, are you taking care of _yourself?”_

Rachel glances back over her shoulder, at the man she still loves, just a bit differently, as he sings about being in over his head. He’s captured his audience by now – he's got an amazing voice and he puts passion into the song, and 

“Taking care of him _is_ taking care of me,” she says. “I wasn’t happy before either, even if I was pretending to be. This is... better. For both of us.” 

Ken offers her a soft little half-smile and holds up a finger, dancing away down the bar only to return a minute later as Patrick finishes up his song with a shot glass full of Skittles. 

“On the house babe,” he says, pushing it across the bar toward her before cupping his hands around his mouth and hollering across the bar above the applause - “Play Piano Man!” 

Patrick laughs, full and loud and real as the crowd hollers their approval, and launches into the tune with gusto, quickly accruing a chorus of backup singers who join in on the rollicking song. He’s grinning, fully in his element, leaning into the keys and playing with the cute little flourishes he adds when it’s easy, and half the bar is singing along and it feels like support, like love. Rachel pops some of the sweet, fruity candy into her mouth and looks around, finds more than one person watching him with interest, men and women alike. There's a spark of excitement in her blood, for him and for her, like this is the real start of their next step, together at the same time but separate on new and different paths. 

Then _he_ walks in. 

They haven’t seen him since their first visit – Patrick's mystery man – but Rachel hadn’t missed the way he always scans the bar every night they’ve come since, craning his neck to see into all the dark corners, searching. He’d blushed when she’d teased him about it and said he still didn’t know what he was looking for, but now the guy’s back alongside the same girl he’d been with last time and Patrick sees them too. 

As they approach the end of the bar opposite her, leather jackets and dark hair gleaming, Patrick nearly fumbles the last chorus. His eyes are panicked when they immediately skip off the man and find her gaze, but she just offers him a huge grin that feels a tiny bit manic and two thumbs up, and he manages to finish out his song on a high note. The crowd whistles and the two newest patrons turn their back to the bar to look at him with interest – he's definitely far better than the usual amateur performance. She can tell that Patrick is trying to keep his head bent over the keys but he must meet one of their gazes, because even as far away as she is, she can see his ears go red. 

Swallowing hard, he takes a deep breath, and maybe it’s the whiskey or maybe it was the thumbs up, but it seems like for the moment he’s done being scared. Licking his lips nervously, Patrick sits up straight again and launches into Michael Bublé, to the delight of a group of girls at the back. He laughs his way through the first few lines in response, offering them a nod of acknowledgement, but when he gets to first chorus he’s found his stride and is looking straight at the object off his anxiety. 

_“I promise you boy, that I’ll give so much more than I get. I just haven’t met you yet!”_


	7. Chapter 7

“That was so good!” Rachel squeals when Patrick finally makes his way back over to the bar to a rounding chorus of cheers and applause. 

He’s a little flush, his hairline glittering, but he’s got a wide grin on his face and a pep in his step and the tension is gone from his shoulders that he’d first sat down with. 

“You never said you could sing!” Ken scolds, sliding over a bottle of chilled water. 

Patrick laughs, cracks the cap and throws back his head to drink deep, downing half the bottle. 

Rachel shoots a covert glance down the bar, and sure enough, a pair of dark eyes are watching closely, with a look she recognizes because she knows she’s worn it herself before. 

Patrick is pretty, even if he doesn’t know it or believe it, and something settles in her chest knowing that the man he likes can see that in him too, can appreciate him right back. 

Hopefully he appreciates him properly. 

Rachel blinks, checks that thought, because honestly she doesn’t know what _Patrick_ wants from this; a quickie in the bathroom just to try it, a short fling that maybe tests a relationship too but doesn’t last? Something... something more? 

She worries at the third finger on her left hand, a habit she’d trained herself out of over the last few months once she’d gotten used to the absence of a ring sitting there. It’s subconscious until it’s not, and she tries to take stock of herself, to ask why that train of thought had caused her a jolt of anxiety. There’s still some pain there of course – there might always be a little – but it’s more like... like softened grief at this point. She’s already moving on a bit, she thinks, or she’s at least accepted that the life she’d wanted with marriage to a husband she loved wouldn’t happen with the man sitting next to her. Maybe then... maybe _hope,_ just a little bit of worry and hope that he can find what he wants too, no matter what that is. 

“I think you have an admirer,” she murmurs, popping a few more pieces of candy into her mouth just to occupy her hands and watching as Patrick’s head snaps up, his eyes seeking, before he blushes hard and quickly looks away. 

“Yeah, they all seemed to like it,” he says, taking another long sip from his bottle, obviously, intentionally less showy this time, keeping himself more contained. 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she huffs, bumping his shoulder with her own. “Are you going to go talk to him?” 

“I think maybe I’ve used up all my courage tonight,” he says, biting his lip and looking down at the bar. 

Rachel’s heart twists and she lays her hand on his wrist, brushing her thumb back and forth. 

“This isn’t a race,” she reminds him. “You don’t win or lose tonight. It’s progress – one step at a time. You made a step tonight Patrick, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“I just... wanna make more,” he mumbles, a little huffy, a little pouty. “I feel like I’ve wasted so much time...” 

And then he stops, going even paler than he normally is as his eyes widen in horror. 

“Rachel, I didn’t mean...” 

“I _know_ what you didn’t mean,” she says firmly, maybe a little sharp because it had still hurt, then, because she kind of wants to punish him for it, “Order him a drink.” 

“What? I can’t...” 

“It’s a nice next step Patrick,” she sighs, a little bit tired suddenly. “You don’t have to go talk to him, you don’t have to outright hit on him. You just... send him a drink. Put the ball in his court.” 

“So I don’t get my heart broken when he laughs in my face?” he snips, his cheeks coloring as he looks away, switches out his water for the beer he’d been working on before his performance. 

“If he did that he’s a dick who isn’t worth your time,” Ken says, reappearing once again to clear away the empties. “She’s right, it’s a slick move. He likes the white wine spritzers.” 

“What’s his name?” Patrick blurts, and Rachel claps a hand over her mouth to hold in the giggles because he immediately looks like he regrets it. 

Ken has no such scruples and laughs out loud. 

“I think I’ll make you ask _him_ that,” he says, dropping one of his signature winks. “So? Drink or no?” 

“I...” 

“Oh.” 

Rachel doesn’t mean to say it. 

It comes out softly, hesitantly, and it’s ridiculous that she feels so crushed but she does, because whatever his name is is heading for the door with his friend, his arm around her waist as he guides her out. 

Patrick follows her gaze to the door and visibly collapses in on himself. 

“Hey, come on, cheer up man,” Ken says easily with a shrug of his shoulders, like it doesn’t matter nearly as much as Rachel thinks it might. “He’ll be back – you're all basically regulars at this point.” 

Patrick groans, loud and exaggerated, dropping his head down onto the bar with a thunk. 

“This is stupid!” he mutters, and Rachel pats his back consolingly, feeling better because at least the irritation is better than desolation. “I’m not a _baby,_ I shouldn’t...” 

“There, there,” she teases, because now he’s full-on whining, his competitive nature apparently having been needled. 

“This is new,” Ken says reassuringly, cleaning glasses. “You’re basically a teenager with a crush – cut yourself some slack.” 

Patrick sighs heavily but sits up again, propping his chin on his fist. 

“You really like this guy huh?” Ken asks, tipping his head to one side. 

“I don’t _know_ him; how am I supposed to know the answer to that?” 

“But you _want_ to,” Rachel points out, shimmying her shoulders. “You think he’s _sexy.”_

Patrick scowls at her as she sings at him, but he softens eventually, a silly little smile tipping at the corners of his mouth, one she hasn't seen aimed at her in a long time. 

“Listen, we’re hosting a stoplight mixer next weekend,” Ken says, swapping out trays of sliced fruit in the cold bar. “You should come. Both of you. Not sure if you’re guy’s coming, but it’s a good way to meet new people, put yourself out there.” 

“Stoplight mixer?” Patrick frowns. 

“Like college?” Rachel asks, and Ken grins at her, nodding. “Red, yellow, green?” 

“Yup,” he nods, “Green for single and ready to mingle, red for taken or not interested.” 

“What’s yellow?” Patrick asks, and Rachel and Ken answer in tandem. 

“It’s _complicated!”_

“Doesn’t have to mean in a bad way either,” Ken explains. “Just means a conversation needs to happen. People with kinks who want to negotiate, people in open relationships or who are looking for a threesome...” 

“People who are in their thirties and only just realized they’re gay?” Patrick asks wryly when Ken trails off. 

“You don’t _have_ to have that conversation,” Ken counsels. “You don’t owe anyone you’re coming out story.” 

Patrick sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, opens his mouth to respond then snaps it shut when Angie, the other regular bartender at the Red Elm, appears with a bottle of beer and pops the cap in front of him. 

“From the ladies in the back,” she says, nodding toward the table in the back corner who had so appreciated his Michael Bublé cover. 

They all giggle noisily and blush and wave and bat their eyelashes when Patrick looks over, and his chuckle is heavy and resigned, but he smiles and toasts them anyway, taking a long pull from the bottle. 

“You’ll get there,” Ken says when he turns back to the bar. “Come out next weekend – if your guy doesn’t show I’ll set you up with a pretty boy.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Patrick finally agrees, and Ken offers them a nod before skirting off back down the bar. 

They hang out for a while longer, talking to the handful of people that come up to praise Patrick’s performance on the piano. He relaxes again the longer they stay, the further he is from his disappointment. They chat with people, something they’d agreed they would try to do more of in coming here, and it’s a little easier, like any other night out at any other bar. Eventually they decide to call it a night, settling their tab and tossing Ken a wave where he’s busy pulling beers as business picked up, heading back outside to the car. 

Rachel watches surreptitiously as Patrick takes a deep breath of cool night air, his shoulders shifting with it. A wave of weariness very suddenly sweeps through her and she presses her keys into his hand, shaking her head when he looks at her worriedly. By the time they get out onto the highway the silence feels a little more tense and she doesn’t know why. 

“I _am_ sorry,” Patrick finally says, staring straight out through the windshield, refusing to even glance in her direction. “For what I said.” 

“I know that Patrick,” she sighs, sitting up and running a hand through her hair. “I’m not angry with you.” 

“Then what are you?” he asks hesitantly. 

_‘Fair,’_ she thinks – she's definitely _something_ – she just... isn’t sure what. 

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “I know this is... kind of weird.” 

Patrick’s chuckle is sharp and wondering, like it had been pulled out of him by surprise. 

“Just a little,” he says softly, reaching across the console to squeeze her hand. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” she asks curiously. 

Sometimes she feels like she’d blown up both their lives that night, all those months ago. 

“For everything,” he says honestly, and his voice is a little tight the way it gets when he’s trying not to cry. “For... for stopping us. I know that sounds awful but...” 

“I know,” she murmurs. 

“So, yeah. Thank you. For... for being smarter than me. For pushing me, and challenging me and... and being there for me. Through all this. I doubt it’s easy for you, and I know it’s not fair...” 

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else Patrick,” she says softly. “I still love you, you big lug.” 

Patrick huffs a little laugh, smiles, pulls her hand to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. 

“I _am_ going to go to the stoplight mixer though,” she says primly, making up her mind even as she says it. “Whether you come along or not.” 

“I see,” Patrick immediately replies in the teasing tone she’s very familiar with. “And what color will you be wearing Miss Farber?” 

“Oh green, of course,” she snipes back, flicking her dress out over her knees. “Can you imagine me in red or yellow with _my_ hair?” 

“It _is_ a gorgeous color on you,” Patrick says, and Rachel feels something ease inside her chest. 

It may not be the cleverest code, but they both know what they’re talking about. 

She thinks maybe she _is_ ready to move on, to really make a start, even if she has to push for it. She’s willing – _happy_ even – to be there for Patrick, to support him as one of the few people he’s comfortable being his new, tentative self around right now, but she needs to take care of herself too. Her life has been on hold for a while, certainly for the last few years, and it’s time to push play again. 

“Well,” Patrick says a few minutes later as he navigates the car onto the exit ramp, “I suppose I could... play wingman, if you wanted. Make sure you’ve got a sober-driver, after all the drinks and dances you’re bound to get.” 

He says it hesitantly, like he’s not sure she’d want him there at all, and a part of her wants to scold him for it, while the other part is appreciative. 

“I’d like that,” she says simply, staring out the window at the velvet-blue night around them. “And what color will you be wearing Mr. Brewer?” 

Patrick blinks, looks stunned for a second like he hadn’t even considered it before turning to her with a half-terrified expression. 

“I... I don’t think I own _any_ of those colors,” he says, and Rachel laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, not yet!!


	8. Chapter 8

She ends up buying him _two_ shirts; one a dark green button-up in his usual style if not his usual color, and another in pale yellow, short-sleeved and so light she thinks it might come across white in the dim, sultry shadows of the Red Elm. She’d thought about accessories instead, something smaller than a whole article of clothing, something that symbolized that this was new and uncertain but... 

But to be honest she didn’t want to foster any of this wishy-washy stuff she was seeing in Patrick lately. 

It’s an uncharitable thought but she can’t help it. 

He’s a take-charge kind of guy – how many times have they had _that_ conversation over the years? 

His competence, his competitive nature, those are things she’s always loved about Patrick and are still a big part of who he is, even if he’s forgotten that temporarily as he navigates this new, cautious thing. She wonders if feeling a bit more like himself wouldn’t help, so she decides to prickle his pride a bit and see if that doesn’t start to bring him out of his shell. 

There are... probably too many puns in that sentiment, but you know what she means. 

“Bet I can get more numbers from cute boys tonight than you can,” she teases smartly as she curls her hair in the bathroom mirror. 

She’s wearing the pale green sundress she’s always loved and the gold necklace Nana had given her, and there are bangles on her wrists and strappy sandals on her feet and she feels pretty, for maybe the first time in a long time. 

That’s an uncharitable thought too – Patrick's never made her feel badly about herself, at least not intentionally – but there’s a spark of excitement that comes with... showing herself off before appreciative eyes that she’s only just realizing she’s missed. 

“Is _that_ the game?” Patrick asks as he steps into their shared bathroom, already dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. 

He's got the yellow button-up in his hands and Rachel smiles to herself – relieved that there’s no automatic disappointment in his choice. He slips it on and goes to button it up but she beats him to it having finished with her hair; she adjusts the drape of it over his shoulders and leaves it open instead, cuffing the short sleeves twice to show off his biceps and leave him with a light, breezy look that’s not as business-casual as the green one might have been. 

“Here,” she says, slapping the little canister of sculpting wax she’d gotten for him into his hand. “I wanna see those curls Brewer!” 

Patrick sighs but diligently opens the pot and scoops some out onto his fingers, rubbing it between his hands before running them through his hair. Rachel stands beside him, leaning in to the mirror as she carefully applies her mascara and just a touch of lip gloss. 

“This is fun,” she says, a wave of giddiness sweeping through her as she bounces on her toes, waiting for Patrick to rinse his hands at the sink. 

He laughs, and it’s a little surprised but sounds more genuine than it has in a long time. 

“It kind of is, isn’t it?” he asks. “I mean, I’m still... nervous...” 

“Fake it till you make it Patrick!” she counsels with a grin, switching off the light and leading him toward the apartment door. “Once you’ve got your first guy-kiss under your belt all this will seem silly.” 

“Even if it doesn’t work out?” he asks, and Rachel peeks at him because she knows this is maybe a... _different_ approach to supporting someone’s coming out, might be too harsh or too pushy, but he’s still smiling. 

“Even if it doesn’t work out,” she agrees. “You’ll _know..._ well, _something_ at least, and it won’t seem so scary the next time.” 

“Like when we first kissed?” 

“Maybe? It seems like it might probably be a little bit the same. Hopefully you’re at least a _little_ excited about it.” 

This time when she risks a look back at him he’s blushing and she bumps their shoulders together as they walk down to the parking lot. 

“Sweaty palms, racing heart,” she teases as he unlocks the car, and he shoots her a glare before they both climb in. “And then that little tingle...” 

She walks her fingers playfully up his thigh and he catches her hand, giving it a squeeze before letting go to start the engine. He’s gone a bit quiet and melancholy, and she can guess what he’s thinking – he's wondering if he’s _ever_ really felt that tingle. It sucks a little bit, because they _had_ been together a long time, but she’s not mad. She thinks that this, the two of them heading off together, both of them on the hunt... she thinks that’s helped. 

They chatter back and forth as Patrick drives them out to Elmdale, stopping for dinner along the way as has become tradition. It’s a strange sort of pseudo-date that is a lot more fun than their actual date nights had been, and she teases him about just that until he laughs. He snarks that it’s just a good way to prepare for drinking – lots of french fries to soak up the alcohol – but he still pays the bill for both of them before they leave. Less than twenty minutes later they’re pulling in to the Red Elm, which has opened up the patio for the evening and strung it with tiny fairy lights, and all that light-hearted glee seems to desert them. 

“Hey,” she says, reaching for his hand. “This is just for fun ok? You don’t have to meet the love of your life tonight. We’ll have a few drinks, talk to a few people, and if someone offers you their number or asks you out for coffee, you can take a chance and try it out, no pressure.” 

Patrick huffs a laugh that’s half-miserable, half-nerves. 

“I’m starting to think I should just hire an escort or something, get it out of the way so I don’t feel so... new,” he jokes, but there’s a hint of honesty in it that makes her heart ache for him. 

“But that’s not what you want,” she argues gently. “You’re nervous because it matters, and because it’s important to you – more important than that.” 

“So fake it till I make it right?” 

“Right,” she grins. “Think you can pull it off Brewer?” 

Patrick rolls her eyes at her challenging tone but the spark is back in his eyes and he drops his shoulders, pulling his confidence back up around him like magic. She’s seen it before – he’d done the same thing stepping out onto the baseball field for the season championship their senior year – and it still thrills her a little even if it shouldn’t. Accepting that little spark for what it is – and what it’s not anymore – she lets it drive her up and out of the car at a bounce and into the bar skipping. 

By the time they reach the doors Patrick has managed to put a little stalk in his walk, and she’s endlessly, painfully proud of him in that moment. The bar, which is normally all warm, honeyed floors and golden overhead lights has been dimmed down to a cool dark with strobe flashes of color here and there, an actual DJ set up where the piano normally is, crammed in next to a karaoke machine. There are a lot of people packed onto the floor and they’re each asked to fork over a $5 cover charge as they come in, so it feels a lot more fratty than it usually does, but they get a drink ticket in return and the atmosphere is poppy and energized. Rachel finds herself grinning and Patrick laughs as she drags him toward the bar. 

“Hey guys!” Ken hollers, wearing a neon green tank top that shows off his arms as he shakes up a cocktail. “You came! Ready to have some fun?” 

They trade in their tickets and chat for barely a minute before Ken has to race off down the bar, busier than they’ve ever seen him. They slip away into the crowd, giving up some much-coveted bar-space, and head toward the back where they can see a few familiar faces. They’ve made friends here over the last month or so: Jessica - the girl who works in social services just like Rachel, Luke - a guy who loves baseball even more than Patrick, and Q – who had explained that they identified as non-binary and who had been quietly teaching Patrick a little bit about different orientations and identities without pushing him too hard as to why he was so curious. They’re welcomed into the group with hugs and cheers, and get a lot of comments about the way they’re dressed. 

“Girl you look amazing!” Jessica says in Rachel’s ear, way too loud and overly honest and eager in that beautiful way that slightly-drunk women have. 

“So do you!” she returns, holding her out at arm’s length to take in her bright-red mini dress. “Tommy couldn’t make it?” 

“No, he had to work,” she frowns, touching the locket around her throat that Rachel already knows contains a picture of her handsome Mountie husband. “But hey, at least this way I can focus on you!” 

Jessica shuffles them off to the side as Patrick slides in between Luke and Q and joins right in with the beer-and-sports talk, far more subtly than she should be capable of given her level of pleasantly tipsy. 

“I actually kind of thought you two were together,” she says hesitantly, her eyes flicking over to Patrick. 

“We used to be,” Rachel replies, chewing her lip as she’s not sure exactly how much she has the right to share. “We were actually engaged a few months ago but we realized I’m... not exactly his type.” 

Jessica’s eyes widen in surprise before she immediately settles into consoling, holding her drink out to the side so that she can cuddle Rachel close. 

“Oh sweetie. Are you ok?” 

Rachel laughs. 

“You know I really, really am?” she says, pulling back and looking over at the man she still loves, if only a little differently. “I’m so proud of him Jess. And you know I think we’re both a lot happier now, even if we hadn’t realized it back then.” 

“Well good for you!” she cheers, clinking her glass to Rachel’s. “Let’s find you someone pretty.” 

Settling in at the table, she huddles in close and spends the next half hour chattering and gossiping happily with Rachel, pointing out different guys and giggling at all the right times. Rachel downs a couple of drinks and peruses her options quite happily, intentionally ignoring Patrick and keeping just out of reach. She wants to give him a chance to try this, to let him off-leash a little so to speak, even if that probably isn’t what he wants. There’s a guy with a deep tan and a fade halfway across the bar that had caught her looking and responded with a shy duck-and-smile that seemed promising, and she’s twirling a lock of hair around her finger in a comfortably familiar flirtation when someone else appears at their table. 

“Haven’t seen you here before,” he says in a low, smooth rumble, and to Rachel’s slight shock – and just a tiny bit of jealousy – he's looking at Patrick. 

He’s tall, very tall, and she doesn’t usually go for the beard-and-flannel lumberjack look but he is pretty and he’s wearing buffalo check in dark green. 

“Hey Jake,” Luke says, looking like it physically hurts not to roll his eyes. “This is Patrick, and that’s Rachel. They’ve actually been coming for a while – haven't seen _you_ in a bit.” 

His gaze flicks over to her for a quick up-and-down and to her surprise he grins with sly interest before going back to Patrick, his eyes warm and his expression open. 

“Well if I’d known what I was missing I would have come around sooner.” 

Patrick’s eyes go wide and he looks shocked that he’s being flirted with, his cheeks going pink. 

Oh, this guy is _good._

A smile curls softly over the corner of Jake’s mouth and he drops his elbows on the table, leaning in toward the both of them like he has a secret. 

“Why don’t I buy you both a...” 

“Jake.” 

Rachel startles at the interruption, and then her heart starts pounding because it’s _him,_ Patrick’s _guy,_ standing beside Jake in a sinful leather jacket and a crisp, white T-shirt. 

“David, hey,” Jake purrs, straightening up, and then he’s slipping an arm around the guy – _David, oh my god, David_ – and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t know you were coming out tonight.” 

“Mmmhmm, right,” David nods, sliding subtly away. “It’s just, Stevie was feeling a little restless...” 

Something in Jake’s expression sparks and his grin turns wicked this time – leaning in close he murmurs something in David’s ear before tipping both her and Patrick a wink and slipping away into the crowd, gone as soon as he’d appeared. 

“Um, sorry,” David apologizes, twisting a flash of silver nervously around his fingers before gesturing in Patrick’s direction. “I just felt like given the color, Jake maybe isn’t the best... I mean, he actually probably _is,_ but...” 

“Well, you _did_ cost me a drink,” Patrick cuts in, when it seems like David is about to spiral off into a little bit of adorably bashful insecurity. 

Rachel actually chokes a little on her grapefruit spritzer because it’s like seeing a switch being flipped – the old, confident Patrick suddenly front and center once again like he’d never gone. 

He’s _teasing,_ a grin tucked into the corner of his mouth, and it hits her with a pang that she’s missed that. 

He hadn’t pulled that out for _her_ in a long time. 

“Oh, I...” David stumbles, his gaze flicking between Patrick’s face and the floor, like he can’t look away but he’s too scared not to. “I mean I could...” 

“Would you let me buy _you_ one?” 

David blinks, looks surprised then softly pleased, and when he nods Patrick steps back from the table and holds out his arm, another gesture Rachel is painfully familiar with. Sure enough, when David falls naturally into step beside him, Patrick’s hand comes to hover just over the small of his back, not actually touching until he feels like he gets permission. She’d fallen into that gentlemanly, protective gesture easily, and while David doesn’t snuggle into his side the way she had so often and so long ago, he certainly sticks close. 

As Patrick guides them through the crowd toward the bar she expects him to at least glance at her, looking for some sort of reassurance. She’d told him to fake some confidence tonight and he’d done pretty well, but she doesn’t think either of them expected his... his crush, this guy who had so affected him before they’d even met to come strolling right up to play the white knight. She kind of expects that bravado to crumble a bit in the face of a really pretty boy actually flirting with him, so she finds herself left with mixed emotions when Patrick doesn’t even look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't really see Patrick in yellow, but Noah Reid's look from People Hold On definitely did it for me.


	9. Chapter 9

“He’s looking at you.” 

Rachel blinks, caught staring after Patrick as he and David disappear into the crowd. Jessica is looking at her knowingly, something soft and sweet around the corners of her mouth even though she’s smirking and bumping Rachel’s shoulder with her own. Chin tilted down, she flicks her eyes toward the table across the bar and Rachel casts a subtle glance in that direction, more than a little surprised that the man who’d caught her eye earlier is gazing in her direction. 

“He’s cute,” Jessica insists in her ear, and Rachel blushes, smiles, as she turns a little on her stool to angle herself toward her admirer. 

She very abruptly doesn’t feel much like flirting anymore, shocked by the flood of emotion pouring through her as she watches her... her _friend_ walk away with someone else. Still, she _can_ say friend, and she _can_ watch him walk away, so she figures she should pull herself together. She’d come here for a reason after all. 

Clearing her throat, she sits up straight again, pushing her shoulders back and – consequently – her chest forward as she shakes out her hair. She tosses back the last of her drink and breaths out a sharp breath, pastes a smile on her face, Nana’s old adage about making happiness for yourself instead of waiting for it to come to you ringing in her ears. She’s here, she feels pretty, and she’s basically advertising that she’s open to possibilities, so she might as well enjoy herself. 

“Come dance with me!” she says, a desperate demand in Jessica’s ear, and she proves herself invaluable as a new friend by pushing her glass across the table to Luke and Q for safekeeping and sliding off her stool without hesitation. 

Rachel winds her way out onto the dance floor and lets the music take hold, throws her arms up and spins her heart out. She doesn’t cry, just lets herself move, and it’s beautiful and loud and the energy pulses through her like a livewire. She wants to run a marathon, to shout a laugh at the top of her lungs – a sense of peace and relief warring with anger and fear and hope for what comes next. It’s dizzying, and breathtaking and if the moment never ended she thinks she might be ok with that. 

Three songs pass and she dances with Jess, who lets her bump and grind and rave and spin all round her, keeping everyone else at arms’ length, a safe zone that Rachel appreciates. Finally, when the music drops off to a low, steady lull, she catches her breath and they trip back to the tables, sealed bottles of water waiting for them. They laugh and joke and chat with their friends and Rachel determinedly doesn’t look over at the bar, doesn’t search the crowd. 

“Ladies.” 

She doesn’t startle either. 

Rachel turns, expecting Jake again, but it’s the other guy, the one with the dark, faded haircut that she’d been admiring earlier that night, who’d apparently been watching her right back. He's _still_ looking at her, eyes bright blue, and there’s a smile just turning the corners of his mouth. 

“I’m Matty.” 

Flicking a glance across the table at Jess, who’s failing to hide a grin behind her fist, Rachel executes an intentional duck of her head and a shy look up through her lashes before extending her hand. 

“Rachel,” she replies, and even if there’s no electric jolt when they shake, his grip is still warm and gentle and firm, and above all it’s _new._

“Pleasure,” he hums, his smile growing. “I was hoping I could buy you a drink.” 

She thinks about it, she does. Shockingly she doesn’t feel the urge to jump right into something, which she’d honestly expected despite reassuring Patrick against it. Still, this guy’s handsome and polite enough so far, and that smile _does_ sort of light up his face. He’s wearing a dark green t-shirt that complements his tan and waiting with a look of curiosity and subtle hope, and maybe she feels the same way. 

She thinks about it, but she doesn’t think for long. 

“I’d like that,” she says with a smile, and he offers her his hand as she slips off the stool to steady herself. 

It’s the sort of little gesture Patrick used to offer when they’d first started dating, or right after they’d reconciled from a break-up, and it’s less a reminder for her than a realization that she enjoys that sort of chivalry in general. She slips her hand round his arm, maybe getting in a subtle grope of his very nice bicep, and lets him tow her through the crowd to the bar, where he somehow manages to clear a spot for them and catch a bartender’s eye. 

“Can I get a cola over ice?” she asks, curious to see how Matty will react to her ordering a drink sans alcohol. Her girlfriends use the trick when they want to judge the guys that pick them up in bars, and she thinks she’s seen every possible reaction ranging from indifference to fury, but she’s pleasantly surprised by his reaction. 

“Maraschino cherry?” he asks, grinning boyishly, and she laughs. 

“Yes please, actually,” she replies, directing the comment toward the bartender, who jerks his chin in acknowledgement. 

Matty chuckles and holds up two fingers, surprising her again by asking for the same. When the glasses are placed in front of them, bright red candied cherries perched on top, he lifts his and waits to clink a toast before taking a long sip, then pops the fruit into his mouth with a wink. Giggling, Rachel spoons up her own cherry and briefly contemplates tying the stem in a knot with her tongue, but ultimately decides against it. 

“Enjoying the event?” she asks, sipping her coke from the rim of her glass, falling easily into old flirting patterns she’d thought she’d forgotten. 

“Even more now,” Matty grins, turning his own glass between his fingers. “You?” 

“Night’s looking up,” she agrees. 

The chat is easy enough, Matty interested and engaged and asking clever questions about her work and her interests and playing right back with answers of his own. He seems nice – works as a chef and volunteers at an animal shelter, enjoys the same music she does, and there’s a back-and-forth between them that’s comfortable and warm. No electric spark, no fireworks, but if she thinks about it, she’s not sure she’s ready or willing to find that. 

Catching sight of Patrick across the bar when the crowd shifts, it strikes her that she’s the only one having that problem. 

He looks utterly smitten. 

“Do you want to meet him?” 

“Sorry, what?” Rachel startles, blinking as she’s knocked out of her reverie. 

“David Rose,” Mattie says, jerking his chin toward Patrick and the man he’s staring at like he’s the only other person in the bar. “We’re not exactly friends but I could introduce you, if you want. He’s not a bad guy, just... maybe a little pretentious sometimes.” 

“Oh, no, I... I’m _so_ sorry,” she mutters, her cheeks burning as she realizes that she’s been staring and completely ignoring the man beside her. “I’m not that horrible, I promise. Um... see the other guy, the one he’s with?” 

Matty glances across the bar, his eyebrows high, but he doesn’t look terribly upset. 

“The guy in yellow? Didn’t you come in with him?” 

“Yeah,” she confirms, watching as Patrick’s face suddenly lights up, his head tipping back as he laughs, David Rose blushing shyly beside him. “He um... he’s a really good friend and he’s... getting back out there for the first time in a long time.” 

Matty turns back to her, tilts his head as she flushes and drops her eyes to the bar. 

“Good friend huh?” 

“Ex-fiancé,” she admits, suddenly feeling brazen and vaguely annoyed with herself. “I was hoping maybe he’d get a chance to... to meet someone tonight.” 

“Huh.” 

“I... what?” she asks nervously, shifting on her stool. 

“Nothing, just...” 

Matty pauses, stares at her before smiling softly. 

“Just, that’s kind of amazing.” 

Rachel feels herself go warm all over and tries not to squirm in her seat. 

“I don’t...” 

“Kind of seems like you do?” he says gently, half a question in response to half a statement that neither of them are sure of. “That’s pretty amazing Rachel. I’ve never been there myself but I feel like most people would be bitter at best in that situation. You don’t see a lot of people that are still friends after breaking off an engagement.” 

“He’s my _best_ friend,” she says, gazing off across the bar again. 

“And you still love him.” 

“Yes,” she answers immediately. “Just... not like that, anymore.” 

“So you came out tonight to find someone for _him?”_

Rachel smirks – _someone_ is probably too general for what Patrick had been hoping for tonight – but she nods anyway. 

“What about for _you?”_

And well... 

She’s wearing green, but he still asks, and given how she’s felt all night – emotions bouncing round all over the place – and given her slightly stalker behavior, she really doesn’t blame him. It’s fair and it’s frustrating in equal measures and she’s tired of it. Patrick looks to be enjoying himself in good hands, and Nana and Jessica and Matty are all right; maybe it’s finally time to start thinking about herself. 

“Dance with me?” she asks, and the way he brightens softly would be worth the risk, even if she wasn’t keen on asking. 

Gulping the last of their drinks, they slip back into the crowd and make their way to the dance floor, the music having picked back up again to something easily danceable. It’s fun and it’s easier than she expected, and Matty _is_ taller than her, and broader through the shoulders than Patrick is, with a trimmer waist, narrower hips. It’s different, and it’s new, and it’s ok. 

They dance a couple of dances with very little contact, this guy either more respectful or more hesitant than most. She likes it, but she also wants... something else, so when the music slides into a slow song, softer with a gentler rhythm, she steps in close and slides her hands up his chest to his shoulders, to wrap her arms around his neck and lean her forehead against his temple. His hands light on her waist and he guides her into a slow, easy sway, letting her almost cling as they move across the floor. She breathes out and tries not to cry, suddenly desperate for a snuggle or a cuddle or _something,_ and almost as if she’s voiced that out loud, Matty’s arms cinch up tighter, pulling her into a hug instead of a dance. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and Rachel pulls back in surprise. 

“For what?” she asks, certain that she’s been the worst date he probably could have imagined when he’s introduced himself tonight. 

“For the dance,” he says, lifting a hand to touch her cheek before stepping back. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I sorta feel like I should get you back to your friends.” 

The laugh that escapes her is short and a little cracked, and horrifyingly she has to swipe her fingers under her eyes to will away the sudden, stinging threat of tears. 

“No, I... that would probably be good,” she agrees. “I’m so sorry, I’m a mess tonight.” 

“Well I’d have to disagree with that,” he murmurs, “But maybe we could try another one? I’d like to take you out to dinner sometime, if you wanted to.” 

And for all she hadn’t expected that, she wants it too. 

“Yeah, please,” she manages, nodding as she pushes her hair back from her face. “I’d really like that. I’ll um... leave the ex at home shall I?” 

Matty laughs, grinning brightly, but it’s not nervous or annoyed or mean, and he just seems... easy. 

As she takes the phone he hands her and taps in her number, it strikes her that maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. 

That maybe she’s been trying so long, fighting so hard, that she’s completely forgotten what it’s like to have a man be interested that way, to want to look at you the way Matty’s been glancing at her all night, to be eager to see you again despite everything that’s maybe gone wrong. 

It’s a spur of the moment thought, but when she hands his phone she leans in and kisses his cheek. 

She can feel him watching her as she turns and walks back to the table, welcomed in by Luke and Jessica and Q who immediately wrap their arms around her and start quizzing her about her night suitor. If they tease her it doesn’t last long – they simmer down and settle back in to whatever conversation she’d interrupted and Jessica leans heavily against her shoulder. Quite abruptly she feels like she can breathe again, and before she knows it an hour has passed in the beat of an eye, the simple safety of friends and no expectations draining the tension from her shoulders. 

She doesn’t watch Patrick. 

Eventually the night begins to wind down and people start to clear out, and she begins to wonder how she’s going to get home. They hadn’t planned for this part – she had never intended to go home with anyone other than Patrick and doesn’t expect that he plans to either, but she still doesn’t want to interrupt his evening. He’d practically disappeared with David Rose and she truly does hope it’s going well, but if she’s honest she’s entirely exhausted and is ready to call it a night. 

Just as she’s about to ask Jessica to make a lap and see if she can reel Patrick back in over to their table, he appears beside her. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, his hand sliding to the small of her waist, habit more than anything. “Ready to head home?” 

“Are you?” she asks, willing to stay if she has to. 

“Yeah, I’m good.” 

He looks it. 

As they say goodbye to their friends, make plans to catch up again next time, she can see a sort of dazed, star-struck expression on his face that she hasn’t seen in a very long time, if ever. It warms her heart and as they make their way to the car something inside her settles, a sense of peace so deep she’s sure that things will work out. 

She’s not sure when, or how just yet, but... yes. 

She thinks that things will work out. 

Patrick is quiet in the passenger seat as she starts the car and she feels herself smile. 

“What’s his name?” she asks a few minutes later as she puts on her signal and merges out onto the highway. 

Patrick’s staring out into the dark with a far-away look on his face that’s dopey and awed and lovestruck and hopeful all at once, and she can feel a warm fondness for him all the way down to her fingertips. 

“David,” he says softly, a quiet murmur in the dark. “David Rose.”


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't miss chapter nine!

**EPILOGUE**

Two months later, Patrick quits his job and moves to Schitt’s Creek. She helps him pack, tucks his guitar carefully into the front seat with her own hands, and kisses him on the cheek before he drives off. It’s the right thing for both of them, she knows it – they've both been seeing other people for a while now, and are starting to chafe under their ongoing living conditions – but it’s still hard to see him go. 

She’s gotten to know David slowly over the course of his and Patrick’s relationship. He doesn’t seem like an easy choice – he's particular and a little finicky and for quite a while he needs a lot of reassurance that Patrick is real, that he wants to stay – but he’s creative and passionate and kind, and they fit together in a way that she and Patrick never did. 

A month after that she goes down for the opening of Rose Apothecary, and she’s never been prouder of either of them. She hugs David, and kisses Patrick’s cheek, and comes home with a basket full of skincare products with gorgeous labels that give her hope. She’d been beside Patrick in all those early days, when he’d come home blushing shyly and had gushed to her in that quiet way he had, gotten all the behind-the-scenes fretting, all the awe as he’d hit milestones neither of them had ever expected, but it’s the store, and the way that David looks at him from across the room that makes her hope. 

She stays up late reassuring Patrick as he plans the Apothecary’s first open mic night. She has to remind him how much she’d always loved it when he sang for her, and it seems to settle his nerves. The night of the event she doesn’t hear from him until three in the morning, but she picks up when he calls anyway, and she thinks she’s the first person that realizes he’s in love. She’s invited to a barbecue shortly after on their four-month anniversary and makes the drive out to Schitt’s Creek with Matty in the passenger seat beside her, the two of them bonding with Stevie and Alexis, and they share a kiss over peach ice cream in the summer heat of the motel’s back lawn. Before they leave, she tells Patrick how happy she is for him, and he offers her the same sentiment, shooting a glance in Matty’s direction before asking her to visit more often. 

She’s there too the first time Patrick messes up, like, really messes up, neglecting to tell his boyfriend that – despite having pretty frequent chats with Marci and having met most of Patrick’s cousins – he's not actually out to his parents. She feels guilty for that. She’d always promised she wouldn’t push him to do it, but she feels like she’d seen that train wreck coming. He stays with her that night after he drives up to tell them, lets him sob out all his fear once they’d gotten back in. She helps him practice his apology and pick out a few gifts before he leaves, and laughs herself sick with relief when a week later, David calls and thanks her for being there for Patrick when he couldn’t be. 

Eventually she attends their wedding, and while she doesn’t stand up with Patrick, either across from him or at his side, she’s happy to be there. It’s a beautiful ceremony, even as thunder rumbles outside, and Matty has a handkerchief ready for her when both David and Patrick mention her in their thank-you speeches. She dances with her best friend, her ex-fiancé, and then with his new husband, and with the man she’s starting to suspect one day might be hers, and while she’s not walking out of Patrick’s wedding on his arm the way she’d always thought she would, she thinks that maybe things turned out right, the way they should. 

Three years later, when Matty proposes that Patrick and David be named the godfathers of their new-born twins, she thinks that things turned out perfect. 

But that’s just her opinion.


End file.
